


Fiercely Perish

by BECandCall



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adoribull - Freeform, Blood and Violence, Explosions, Hostage Situations, M/M, Side Story, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BECandCall/pseuds/BECandCall
Summary: A half-dozen terrorists. One former Ben Hassrath. The odds are against the Iron Bull... and that's just the way he likes it.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 22
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has mentions of terrorism, graphic violence, and a lot of cursing. Ye be warned! Also, credit to MakjangCandy for the original idea and many of the plot points, as well as agreeing to beta this fic for me!

Of course it was on top of a mountain. Why wouldn’t it be? 

The Iron Bull heaved a sigh as long-suffering as his chest was broad. The cold Orlesian air resulted in said sigh unleashing a cone of fog before him, like the onslaught of an ice dragon. The mental image pleased him and lifted some of his unease, along with his gaze - up, up, up to the very tip of the mountainside before him. The top hundred feet or so had been smoothed out several thousand years ago, and carved in elaborate patterns that made up the exterior of the ancient temple that was his destination. 

He didn’t let himself look down to where the path fell away only a few feet to his left, disappearing to nothing for miles below as the snow-laden landscape stretched out to the horizon, blindingly bright in the afternoon sun. 

The cart he was riding plodded along at a ponderous pace, striking nearly every stone and dip in the path before them. The druffalo pulling it was provoked to continuous but reluctant movement by an increasingly aggravated Sera, who had resorted to poking it with a rather large stick she’d found alongside the path some miles back. The Bull let her have her fun. He’d long since given up trying to talk her into something sensible, like hiring a carriage and driver so she didn’t have to constantly match wills with a stubborn beast. 

After a particularly sharp poke from Sera’s stick, the druffalo took a slow, protesting step too far to its left, nearly sending the cart and all its occupants careening over the cliff’s edge. 

“Watch it, will ya?” The Iron Bull gruffly rebuked Sera’s carelessness, receiving a raspberry blown at him for his trouble. 

“Ehh, watch yerself! We’re fine, en’t we?” 

He only grumbled in response, causing a bit of side-eye from his fair-haired companion-come-driver. 

“Wuzzat? You afraid of high places or somethin’?”

“What gave you that idea?” 

Sera responded with a guffaw so loud it echoed across the cliffs above, sending her mirth dancing into the vast emptiness below. Her laughter continued for some time, long enough that the Bull became vaguely worried that it would be the soundtrack to the remainder of their journey to the temple above. When she finally stopped, he’d nearly forgotten what was so funny in the first place. 

“There’s a cure for that, ya know,” she said in such sudden seriousness the jarring mood change almost gave him whiplash. 

“Oh yeah?” This should be good. Sera’s solutions to most non-problems were either batshit insanity or sheer brilliance. It was always a coin toss as to which it would be. 

“When yer alone, strip all’a way down from the waist up, go up to a window or a ledge or someplace you can look out of, and just… scream!” 

“...Scream?” 

“Yup!” She sounded very positive about this. “Tits out, lungs up. Scream! Cures you right up!” 

He thought a bit about that as they continued on their winding, bumping, plodding path upward. Fuck, it sure was high. And cold. Normally he eschewed wearing a shirt, finding them too cumbersome to be bothered with, but the frigid temperatures of the mountainous heights of Orlesian winter had forced him to don a tunic probably made for someone with smaller measurements than his. He shrugged uncomfortably against the straining fabric, wary of hearing a rip sounding from one of the seams. He’d be glad to see the end of this journey, and soon. Whether he’d get a happy reunion, however, was another question altogether. 

It had been some months since he’d last seen Dorian. The invitation to come visit the temple while he continued his research there had come as no small surprise, considering how badly their last conversation had gone; so bad, in fact, it was less talking and more aggravated screeching. The memory made him wince. 

But who knows? Maybe enough time had passed. Dorian might just be happy to see him. The Iron Bull was nothing if not an optimist. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorian could hear the revelries from down the hall. His fellow researchers were deep in their cups already, tipsier than spinning tops. Many would be nursing hangovers come morning. He sighed and hunched further over the scrolls at his desk, periodically cross-referencing them with the detailed notes in his journal. He’d been working for weeks at this particular translation, but ancient Elvish was so stubbornly context-sensitive that comprehension was proving elusive. Still, he’d be blighted if he was going to admit defeat. 

Even amidst revelries. 

Said revelries were the result of a long-overdue breakthrough by the research team he’d been working with these last few months. Their exhaustive efforts at probing the secrets of this newly discovered temple dedicated to Dirthamen had finally begun to pay off with the most recent translation of several of the runes carved in the main hall. This had allowed them to deactivate some of the more deadly - and ancient, priceless secret-destroying - traps scattered throughout the temple, which in turn allowed them to finally expand their efforts past the main entrance hall. 

A faint glow from the nightstand across the room drew his frustrated attention away from the indecipherable script before him, and with a groan he rose and picked up the small coin-sized crystal that lay there, attached to a delicate silverite chain. He touched it on the flatter surface, activating his side of the communication line. 

“Ser Dorian, you there?” A familiar voice came through the sending crystal as clearly as if they were standing right next to him.

“Krem, what can I do for you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Sorry to disturb you-” Krem always was so polite, “-but the scouts just spotted a cart coming up the way. Looks to be the Chief.” 

“Ah, so he managed to make it before nightfall after all.” Dorian had wondered. He knew the big lummox well enough to know he didn’t rise early by choice if he could help it. He’d half expected another fortnight before seeing so much as the tips of his horns. 

“Barely,” Krem chuckled lightly. If there was one exception to his professional decorum, it was in ribbing his intrepid leader. “Cart’s moving at a snail’s pace. Might have to make him a tent out here at forward base, unless you had other plans?” 

It was ever so slight; the faint hint of amusement in his voice disguised as a question. Yes, Krem was always polite, but still no one’s fool. 

“No, go ahead and send him up,” Dorian replied. His gaze twitched to his left, where his bed sat, still unmade from the night before. “I think we may find room for him after all.” 

“Sure thing, ser.” Krem ended the communication. 

Dorian fought off a sense of foreboding as he set his own sending crystal down, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake. 

Sending crystals had been a Maker-sent convenience for this dig, supplied by a contact Dorian still maintained back home. There were a few other pairs lying around the temple, making for easier cross-referencing between rooms. It was far less dangerous than traipsing back and forth across fields of still-active boobytraps just to have a simple question answered. And it made coordinating for outside supplies much simpler. 

Krem, for instance, was still down at the forward camp, along with the rest of the Chargers. Bull had sent them along with the research team at the Inquisitor’s insistence, desiring full protection while they worked. Orlais was still mired in a civil war, after all, and there was no telling when the Empress or the Grand Duke might decide to make use of the vast wealth of knowledge hidden here. 

Behind him, the revelries grew momentarily louder as the door to his room was opened just a crack and a head poked through. The head belonged to Tatienne, an Orlesian woman of middling years with salt and pepper hair. She had a firm but kind face, which suited her role as head researcher quite well; it made her approachable, but not lacking in authority. Currently, that authority was directed at Dorian. 

“Are you going to spend the whole party cooped up in here?” she asked, not unkindly. 

Dorian couldn’t help but smile. “I just wanted another crack at this translation from the western alcove. I’ll be down momentarily.” 

Out from behind Tatienne came another head, one whose grin held a distinctly more smarmy hook than hers. That grin widened noticeably when the man caught sight of Dorian, whose own smile in turn tightened and dropped fractionally upon seeing him. 

“Pavus, love, you really shouldn’t rob the rest of us of that handsome face, you know.” Harris was practically beaming; clearly he’d already been in his cups a bit too much. 

Dorian resisted the urge to grimace. Harris had been applying a steady campaign of flirtation almost from the moment he’d arrived, and subtle hints had failed to get him to back off. Soon he was going to have to be rather more firm and obvious with his rejections, but he wasn’t looking forward to the onslaught of pouting that was sure to result. So he’d been putting it off. He still had to work with the man, after all. 

With assurances that he would be down shortly, he rushed them both out of the room, shutting the door with a heavy sigh. Sober Harris was bad enough. Drunk Harris would likely be relentless. He was dreading the inevitable confrontation almost as much as having to hobnob with the rest of the researchers. Despite appearances, he really preferred to keep to himself. Still, he was nothing if not savvy, and he knew he’d have to at least make an appearance if he expected to be able to work with these people. Scholars could be a fickle bunch. 

Not for the first time, he found himself missing Bull’s steady confidence. It was an excellent buffer in crowded social events like this one. With no witnesses now to expose him, he allowed a wistful smile at the thought of seeing the big brute again. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Iron Bull stared at the impressive spectacle that was the temple’s main entrance. The whole blasted thing had been carved right into the mountainside, and the main entrance was a grand archway depicting… someone. He’d forgotten which elven god this particular temple was dedicated to, but whoever it was, they sure loved humongous statues of themself without a face. Or maybe that was meant to be a mask. Made sense; they were in Orlais, after all. 

After just a moment’s pause that he insisted to himself was merely to recover from the bracing cold, he walked inside… 

… And immediately found himself surrounded by drunk scholars. Well, Krem had mentioned they were celebrating some big breakthrough. Maybe that was why Dorian was in a forgiving mood. Or maybe he just wanted to vent more frustrations in person. 

Ah well, no sense putting it off. He slowly scanned the room, looking for the perfectly groomed moustache and liquid dark eyes he knew so well, but someone else spotted him first. A young-ish looking man with a sharp jawline and long, platinum blond hair pulled into a low horsetail took notice of him from across the room and gave an excited wave. 

The Bull frowned. He didn’t know the man - he’d never forget a face that distinctively smarmy - but the man certainly seemed to know him. As he waited on the stranger to navigate the unsteady swarm of bodies, he lifted an opened wine bottle from a nearby table and gave it an experimental sniff before downing the remaining half in a few large gulps, punctuating with a grimace and low belch. He’d need something more bracing to get him through tonight, but it was a start. 

The man reached him at last, clapping him jovially - and a little overly friendly - on the back. 

“Well, but aren’t you every bit as imposing and eye-catching as Dorian said you were!” His accent was as sharp as his features, and it marked him as a Marcher. Maybe Starkhaven? 

“And you are?” 

“Ah, forgive my manners!” He held out a hand, which the Bull took in a hearty handshake. “Harris Ellison, nice to finally meet ya! Dorian’s mentioned you a lot.” 

Funny, he’s never mentioned you. Still, the Bull couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride that he was apparently on Dorian’s mind when he wasn’t around. Even after two months. Or was it three now? Though he did wonder if that slight sourness to Harris’s tone at the end was resentment… or rejection. 

“Where is Dorian?” he asked in perfectly even tones, falling back on old habits instilled into him long ago by the Ben Hassrath. Even if he’d recently tenured his resignation in spectacular fashion, the training never really left him. 

“Still hard at work, like always.” Harris punctuated that with a not unfriendly roll of his eyes. “C’mon, I’ll take you to him.” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorian was just coming out of his room to finally face the party when he nearly bumped right into the broad, well-muscled - and oddly, clothed - chest of the Iron Bull, whose fist was upright and hanging in the air, as if he’d just been about to knock. 

“Kaffas!” Dorian uttered in surprise. “Bull?” 

“Hey, Dorian,” Bull smiled down at him. “You look good.” 

Dorian knew this, of course. Part of the reason why he was only just now getting out of his room was that he’d fussed in front of the mirror for a good half hour trying to strike the perfect balance of “effortlessly debonnaire”. But it mattered that Bull noticed. He felt a familiar fluttering in his chest as he looked up into his former lover’s face, and couldn’t help the warm smile that spread across his own mien in response. 

“Glad you made it,” he said, trying very hard to sound casual. 

They both hovered there, with Dorian caught halfway between inviting him in and trying to make small talk, neither of which felt right, and so he hesitated. As if sensing his unease, Bull leaned back to give him a little space, clearing his throat. 

“How about you invite me in and we can catch up a little?” he asked. “Too many drunks hanging out down there.” 

“Right, yes, of course.” Dorian pulled the door wider and stood aside to let Bull pass through. He was massive enough that he needed to come at a slight angle in order to fit through the narrow frame, and Dorian couldn’t help the comparison that came to mind - a bull in a porcelain shop was a bit on the nose, but it was also ridiculously appropriate. And thoroughly amusing. 

He left the door cracked, giving them seclusion but making it clear there would just be talking. At least for now; anything more would depend on how the talking went. 

Bull leaned against the far wall, hands casually in his pockets as he took stock of the room. Dorian could practically see the wheels turning behind that carefully bland expression. He knew from past experience he was mapping the room - the furniture, the alcove where he kept his wash basin and some spare clothes, the window that looked out onto the picturesque mountain region, the small air shaft at the top of one wall, meant to help better circulate fresh air to the inner chambers. 

Despite telling himself Bull was only being strategic, Dorian felt oddly self-conscious about the stacks of unsorted papers, piles of books, the unwashed clothes in one corner, the tousled sheets of the bed. Not that any of that mattered to Bull - again that image of a porcelain shop flashed through his mind - but Dorian always liked to at least appear to be the clean one between them. 

“So,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I hope the journey wasn’t taxing?” 

Bull only shrugged, eye still wandering the room. He was deliberately letting the silence stretch, a favorite tactic of his to get someone talking. It was frustratingly effective.

“I’m a little surprised you found my room so easily.” Dorian had his own tactics, and getting Bull to brag about how clever he was usually worked. “This place is a bit of a labyrinthe if you’re not careful.” 

“Ran into a friend of yours.” There was just the slightest emphasis on the word “friend”, making Dorian’s eyes narrow, trying to find the trap. “Harris?” Ah, of course. “He’s got it for you bad.” Bull’s gaze finally settled on him, shrewd and cold. 

“That’s fine,” Dorian shrugged and played it off with ease. “I’ve got my eye on his father’s library in Starkhaven.” 

Bull nodded to himself, as if confirming something. “Well, maybe it’ll be included in the dowry if you negotiate well enough.” The hurt in his voice wasn’t an act, but it also wasn’t jealousy; he wasn’t the type. Dorian frowned in suspicion.

“This isn’t about Harris.” He sighed, already tired of the verbal chess match. He’d forgotten how fraught their conversations could be. 

“You didn’t write,” Bull answered honestly, dropping the facade easier than expected. “I missed you.” 

“I wanted to give us both some space. Our last talk didn’t exactly end well.” 

“So I’m just supposed to wait and twist while you run off with your study buddies until you’re ready to apologize?” 

“Apologize?” Dorian bristled, instantly defensive as unbidden magic crackled in his hands, fanning the embers of the old argument into licks of flame. “As I recall, you were the one trying to lay claim to my entire future just because we shared a few nights in bed!” 

“Hey, don’t try and reframe what you think my idea of our relationship is---”

“---Oh, I know exactly what your idea of our relationship is!” 

They were at that moment, rather luckily, interrupted by a couple who burst through the door, enthusiastically giggling and groping at each other. When the women realized the room was occupied, however, they drunkenly apologized and retreated, stumbling further down the hall. 

Dorian laughed, and the fire in his temper receded. Knowing this lot, there would be quite a bit of that tonight. Scholars could be ravenous as sharks given opportunity and enough liquid courage to drown their social anxieties. It was enough to ease some of the tension lingering in the room, and when Bull next spoke he was calmer. 

“I’m here to escort you back to Skyhold,” he said. “Inquisitor’s orders.” 

“What? Why?” Dorian was immediately back on the defensive. “I’ve still got loads of work to finish here!” 

“I don’t question the Boss. I jus---”

“---Just follow orders.” Dorian rolled his eyes and ran a hand wearily through his hair, forgetting that he’d just spent the past half hour fixing it. “How long have I got?” 

“Well, I guess that depends on you.” Bull left his spot against the wall and took a few tentative steps forward. “I could leave now and tell her you’re on your way. Or you can leave with me when I go.” 

“When?” 

He shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe… later than tomorrow.” 

And there it was. The check was called, and the move was Dorian’s. But he didn’t have an answer ready, and he knew if he stayed he’d say something regretful. 

“Look, I’ve got to at least make an appearance down there,” he said, making for the door. Then, following through on at least one decision he’d already made, “But if you want, you’re welcome to stay here tonight. So make yourself at home. We can… finish this discussion later.” 

Then he was out the door, not waiting on a reply. It had only been five minutes and he already felt like he needed fresh air. That could have certainly gone better. 

Still, he thought, recalling the genuine smile on Bull’s face the instant he saw him, and his own answering smile. It could have gone worse too. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matthias shifted his stance for maybe the dozenth time that hour, and heaved another long-suffering sigh. Guard duty at the temple had proved to be far more boring than he could have ever counted on. All things told, he’d rather be back at Skyhold, monitoring the comings and goings of the main receiving hall. At least the flock of nobility that always seemed to congregate there had good gossip he could eavesdrop on to pass the time. He just knew he was missing some juicy new tidbit about the advisors’ latest spat. 

Scholars, on the other hand, usually only talked about obscure topics that no one cared about, and in such great detail it made his head spin. Tonight’s celebration was the first sign of life they’d shown in months, but guarding a bunch of drunkards presented its own problems. 

Twice now, he’d had to redirect stumbling pairs and small groups back into the temple from whence they’d wandered. He rather resented being reduced to babysitting duty, but it wouldn’t do to have them getting lost and dropping right off the cliffside, after all. So he contented himself with the amused observation that mere hours ago most of these scholars would have delighted in describing to him the depths of his own ignorance, whereas now he was quite frankly all that stood between them and their own inebriated downfall. 

So when a covered wagon driven by two strangers came into view just past sunset, he was quite glad for a distraction. 

He heard it well before seeing it, in fact, as one of the drivers was a great deal more talkative than the other, and when Matthias heard the name of one of his favorite jousters, his ears automatically tuned into the one-sided conversation with interest. 

“Ser Briggite is coming up from behind, right?” the talkative driver was saying when they were close enough for Matthias to pick out the words. “And she’s got two lances still to catch before she beats this guy. So what does she do? Before the flag even drops, she charges forward, lance perfectly angled to catch the torso, yeah?” 

Now they were close enough for him to make out their features. The talkative driver was a woman, he guessed of a short and slender build, but it was hard to tell beneath the bulky cloak she wore. Her accent and tanned skin indicated she was probably Rivaini. Matthias thought she sounded attractive, but thanks to the hood it was impossible to know for sure. The man she rode with was tall, broad-shouldered, with short-clipped hair and a strong jawline. He was also heavily armored, which struck Matthias as a bit odd for a supply transport. Had the roads gotten that bad? 

“And this other guy, y’know, he’s a bit slow on the uptake, but once he sees she’s already moving he kicks his horse into gear. And he’s a big guy, yeah, so she’s gonna need all the momentum she can muster. Except when she gets to the center point, she stops! She just fuckin’ stops her horse, full dead on the sand.” 

Now they were pulling up right in front of Matthias, who had dutifully held out his hand and moved into their path to indicate they needed to stop for inspection. He wanted to ask for their cargo inventory, but the talkative cloaked one just kept right on going, as if she never needed breath. 

“So this obviously confuses the other knight, and he starts to slow, but as soon as he comes within reach of her lance, she rears her horse up and brings the lance down---”

\---Matthias never felt the bolt that killed him. It flew through the air from the cloaked one’s wrist, emerging from a compact crossbow that needed little more than a delicate flick of her wrist to fire, and her aim was impeccable. The bolt went clean through his skull, right between the eyes. 

“---And BOOM! Headshot! Three lances, victory’s hers!” she finished her story triumphantly, not missing a beat. 

Matthias crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. The quiet man handed the reins to his partner and dismounted, coming around to open the back. Out of the wagon emerged several more individuals, all armed and armored to best suit their abilities. Some carried bandoliers of blood vials and tall staffs made of solid, black iron. Some were in full plate and rested their hands on sword hilts hanging from their belts. One was larger than the others by a full head, with grey skin, hulking shoulders, and two curved horns which curled low around his ears. His weapon of choice, a two-handed greatsword, dragged along the ground behind him, and he carried a bulging linen sack slung across his bare, tattooed torso. 

The last to emerge was a quietly fierce woman who stood tall in her Tevinter-style robes of deep crimson. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a high bun, simple but stylish, and ever so practical. Streaks of grey in her hair and crow’s feet at the corners of both eyes indicated her age, but one would be hard pressed to think of her as old, given the calculated determination in her gaze and the solid set of her shoulders. Her own staff was gilded, but no less heavy, and the wiry muscles in her arms confirmed it had been frequently wielded. 

She looked among the others, who all deferred to her, awaiting their orders. She barely gave the dead guard a moment’s consideration, and cocked her head slightly to listen to the celebratory shouts and laughter emerging from within the temple.

“It sounds as if they’ve started the party without us,” she said in a deep voice of silk and sharp edges. “Shall we announce ourselves?” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Iron Bull had to laugh at the absurdity of it. Sera’s advice was actually working. He’d have to remember to thank her when he got back to the forward camp, where she’d elected to spend the night rather than hoof it the rest of the way up the mountain to, as she put it, “Sleep with a bunch'a nerds and deadies.” 

Once Dorian had scarpered off, the Bull decided that was a good time to try and work off his lingering discomfort at the incredible altitude they were at. He stripped down from the waist up as Sera had instructed and walked over to the window, letting the stiff breeze tense his muscles reflexively to the cold. 

“Tits out, lungs up,” he muttered. “Here goes nothing.” 

Just as he was taking a deep breath in preparation for the almighty roar, screams coming from the main hall caught his attention and sent his danger senses tingling. He knew what playful screams sounded like - these were definitely out of genuine terror. Something had drastically changed the mood of the party. The next sound confirmed it. 

Steel on steel. Swords clashing. There was fighting in the temple. 

Instinct took over, and he crept to the door, making as little noise as possible. The instant he detected footsteps, he retreated, just barely managing to scramble behind the alcove when the door swung open to reveal a silhouette he recognized from many a battlefield since joining the Inquisition. 

Dark metal armor, with sharp angles jutting out at the joints, and a contrastingly bright broadsword made of dawnstone. Not a mage, but clearly used to working with them, based on the singe marks on the tunic beneath his full plate and the belt of alchemical flasks hung about his waist. 

The Venatori scanned the room carefully, but obviously wasn’t expecting to find anyone in here and was just doing this as a formality. If he’d been doing his job correctly, he’d have hurled one of those flasks he carried that would have sent any occupants doubled over and coughing. 

The Iron Bull, however, was not about to let this opportunity pass by, and in the span of two heartbeats he’d crossed the room and snapped the Venatori’s neck before he could even raise his sword to counter him. He dragged the corpse back into the room and carefully shut the door, padding pockets and tossing the vials of combustible liquid out the window. No sense leaving fuel behind for the next henchman to use. He took the broadsword, but didn’t find anything else of value on the corpse - must have been low-ranking - and had just finished leaving a little message for whoever found the dumb bastard when he heard more footsteps coming. 

From the weight and sound of their steps, they were well-armed and armored, and that gave him pause. He could probably take them, but not quietly, and not quickly. And right now, his best advantage was surprise. He scanned the room quickly. There was no time to hide the body, and once they saw it they would definitely be giving this room a more thorough check than their buddy here had. 

His first thought was the air shaft, but he quickly dismissed that; no way his horns would fit through there. With a growing sense of dread, he knew what he needed to do, and with no more time to hesitate, he ran to the window and flung himself through, angling his horns and shoulders to fit. At the last minute, he caught one hand on the windowsill, grunting at the wrench to his shoulder as he slammed against the outside of the stone wall just as the door swung violently open again. 

He clung to the ledge, not daring to look down, barely able to hear the surprised and enraged exclamations of the second group of enemies above the wind whistling past his ears. By the time they ran back out into the hall to tell their leader about this unexpected setback, his grip was beginning to slip and he had to switch hands before he could pull himself up. The stolen sword, he held between his teeth as he climbed. 

But he didn’t go back inside. Instead, he worked his way, inch by inch, handhold by handhold, across the outside of the temple, until he came to a rounded protrusion that he recognized from the layout as the main hall. His shoulders were screaming in protest by then, but he’d had years of training to ignore pain. With practiced ease, he found a high window and lifted himself just enough to peer down to the great open space within. 

Nearly everyone he’d remembered seeing from passing through earlier that night was still there, with the unfortunate exception of the few guards, who now lay dead against one wall. And the addition of about a half dozen new faces, standing over the frightened and shrieking crowd. He really should get a read on the enemies, he knew, but instead his gaze was frantically searching through the screaming and crying research team, hoping against hope not to see one particular face… 

But then his eye fell on an unconscious form, sprawled across the floor, head in the lap of Harris, eyes shut and a nasty looking gash spread down his torso. 

Dorian. 

His heart constricted to see him lying there, but he noted with immense relief that he was still breathing. Not dead, then. The gash also wasn’t bleeding as much as he’d expect from an injury that size, meaning it was shallow; must have been a nullifying strike. That meant templars. 

Venatori working with templars? That was new. Who were these guys? 

Questions for later, he decided. Right now, he knew only two things: these guys were armed and dangerous, and they had Dorian as a hostage. 

But they didn’t know about the Iron Bull. And what they didn’t know was about to kill them.


	2. Chapter 2

Hestia Galataius scanned the room with a carefully neutral expression as she listened to the patrol give their report in frantic whispers. She’d had to rebuke them for speaking too loudly when they rushed toward her after their search of the upper level; bad enough they’d already lost one of their own, the last thing they needed was for the hostages to start doubting who was really in charge here. 

One of their own dead. Fuck. And it had been Antonius, of all people. Hestia would have to be very careful about how she told Karla; she would want to avenge her brother. An understandable impulse, but they couldn’t afford to be careless right now. Hestia was not about to let all that they’ve worked for be undone by some cocksure scholar who’d probably read one too many tales of daring chevaliers as a child. 

Probably should leave out the mocking message that had been carved into his torso: “Thanks for the broadsword.” Sick fucker, whoever they were. 

“Marcus, you and Francis keep patrolling the upper corridors. Mind the traps, but search thoroughly. Find this bastard, whoever they are, and deal with them quickly so we can get back to business. Do not tell the others.”

Marcus hesitated. “And what about Karla?” 

“I’ll deal with Karla. Now go.” 

The two were off, not needing to be told twice. They’d trained long and hard for this day, just as the rest of them had. Hestia considered summoning Karla just then, but didn’t want to leave the hostages minus a guard, and so instead gestured for Thea to join her. She’d been scanning the room for traps while simultaneously talking Edmond’s ear off about something or other. Hestia mostly tuned her out when she wasn’t answering a direct question. 

“Yes ma’am?” Thea asked, making minute adjustments to her crossbow where it was affixed to her wrist. 

“Report.” Hestia did not mince words. 

“Traps in this room are all disabled, obviously,” Thea answered. “But what’s interesting is how they’ve been disabled. There’s no evidence of jimmying or scratching, so no tools were used. Which means they must have figured out a password. Now, whether that password works for all the traps or just the ones in this room, I couldn’t say, but---”

“---Just tell me whether you can get through the rest.” 

“Well, sure,” Thea grinned. “But it’d be a lot faster with that password.” 

Hestia nodded. It was the answer she’d expected. 

“Find me the lead researcher.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorian groaned as he came to. Sense reasserted itself as the heavy fog of unconsciousness reluctantly lifted away. His chest burned fiercely, and his whole body pulsed with a dull ache that made movement slow and painful. He groaned again. 

“Easy now,” came a familiar voice with an unfamiliarly gentle tone. “You took quite the hit.” 

Dorian opened his eyes to look up at Harris. Confused, he shifted, this time ignoring the protestations of his muscles in order to better gauge his situation. He’d been lying down, head cradled in Harris’s lap. Oh, of bloody course the man would take this opportunity. Dorian shuddered, and could only hope the bastard hadn’t copped a feel while he’d been out. He promptly sat up, and another groan of pain caught the attention of a tense and alert looking man in full plate armor. He marched over with his sword out. 

“No trouble here!” the guard demanded in a tone that sounded very hopeful that there would indeed be trouble. His eyes were cruel, and a jagged scar across one cheek pulled at the corner of his mouth in ghastly mockery of a grin. Dorian recognized the familiar aura of lyrium, and knew him for a southern templar. When Dorian and Harris made no more movements or noise, he walked back over to his post at the edge of the crowd of researchers. 

Dorian examined himself then, noticing the large, bleeding gash that cut diagonally down his torso from shoulder to hip. It stung fiercely, but wasn’t deep. Had he been lucky? Carefully, he tried summoning a small flame to his palm, but when he reached for the Fade, he felt nothing. 

Nullification. Wonderful. That explained the aches all over his body as well. Probably done by Scar over there. He frowned, looking over the new arrivals who so violently insisted on disrupting the evening’s celebration. There were several with armor, yes, but there were also a couple who were clearly mages. Not just any mages, either - he saw their bandoliers with red vials hanging from them. Blood mages and templars, working together? How odd. 

What were they after? Or, perhaps more importantly, who were they after? 

He remembered in a flash of panic that Bull was still in his bedroom upstairs. A quick scan of the room told him he wasn’t among the hostages. Well, he could take care of himself. Dorian tried to reassure himself, knowing there was nothing more he could do right now. Not until the nullification wore off. And based on how badly his body ached and how long he’d been knocked out, it would likely be a while. 

“Glad to see you up, my friend.” 

Dorian looked to his left and saw Tatienne sitting there. She was watching one particular mage very closely, as two of the armored men were whispering frantically to her. When she uttered a few curt orders, they rushed back out of the room looking worried. So, there was the leader. Dorian took her measure and quickly determined she was Venatori, based on her robes and the style of staff she brandished. Taking her out would be a priority. 

“We may need you soon,” Tatienne muttered to him. 

Dorian nodded, already working out a strategy. Just as soon as his powers came back… 

Another of the henchmen came over to the leader and spoke briefly with her. This one was lightly armored and wore a long cloak that Dorian assumed was meant to conceal as much as protect. He saw a strange bulge in the fabric of her left sleeve that didn’t resemble the outline of any weapon he knew. 

He didn’t have to wonder long. As soon as the henchman finished speaking to the leader, she marched over to the crowd of hostages and scanned over them. 

“Where is your head researcher?” she demanded in short, clipped tones.

Tatienne flinched, then moved as if to stand, but Dorian reached over and held her back, shaking his head when she looked over to him questioningly. He had no illusions that whatever they wanted, it wasn’t good. He was thankful everyone else was too shell shocked to think of looking their way. 

The henchman shrugged, and reached out her left arm to reveal what had been causing that strange bulge - a small, compact crossbow that was barely larger than her hand but nonetheless held three sharpened bolts that were no less deadly for their size. She waved it in a slow arc across the crowd. The threat was clear. 

“Where. Is. Your. Leader.” 

In one swift motion, Tatienne shrugged off Dorian’s hand and stood before he could stop her. She stood with her head high, and did quite an admirable job of covering her trembling hands by clenching them into fists at her sides. 

“I am leading this research team,” she answered in a steady voice. 

Dorian swore under his breath as she was led away to one of the side rooms, with the lead Venatori and two more of her henchmen - one of the armored fellows and the cloaked one - following. They shut the door behind them with a resounding thud.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now the Iron Bull had names. Well, some names. And he was starting to get an idea of how these people operated. He’d been able to angle himself to hear some of what the armored fighters had been saying to who was clearly their leader. Marcus and Francis were the first of the names he was already committing to memory. Hestia was next, as they so helpfully shouted to their leader as they approached her. And the poor sap he’d killed before was another, along with his sister - Antonius and Karla. He’d probably have to deal with that consequence at some point. But he wasn’t worried about them finding him, at least for a while. 

They weren’t likely to look outside, after all. 

He clung to the ledge, the wind still whipping past him, ignoring the strain to his muscles and the frigid temperatures, although he was already missing his shirt. He knew he couldn’t stay out here forever, though. For one thing, his fear was beginning to get the best of him, making his palms sweat and his hands tremble more than they should be from just the pain of holding his weight steady against the narrow foothold. Stupidly, he’d already looked down once - just a quick glimpse when his foot slipped - and now he couldn’t get the image of the plunging, sheer cliffside that plummeted for miles below out of his head. 

A brief moment of relief came when he saw Dorian stir, but that was short lived when one of the henchmen - looked to be a rogue class fighter, though her weapon was not any type he’d seen before - had picked out the head researcher and brought her into a side room. 

He had to get to that room. Whatever they wanted with her, he couldn’t let them get it. If these people gained too much of the upper hand too quickly, he’d never get things back under control. Not without a lot more death. 

With great difficulty, he pulled himself up and over the domed ceiling of the main hall, allowing only a brief moment’s rest to quiet the straining muscles before crawling over to the opposite side. He calculated about where he thought he remembered the side room was and lowered down the outside of the wall until he found a window. Looking in, he was gratified that he’d guessed right. 

Inside was a small side room that held a few sparse pieces of furniture and a long, low table that looked to be intended for group meetings. At one end sat Hestia, flanked by an armored fighter. At the other end sat the head researcher, with the rogue ominously standing over her shoulder. She looked absolutely terrified. 

“Tatienne, I appreciate your cooperation,” Hestia was saying in a tone like the cured leather of a scabbard that concealed a sharpened blade within. “I hope we can count on that continuing. I think we can all agree further loss of life is undesirable?”

“What is it you want?” Tatienne’s voice held steady. She’d done an admirable job of holding back her fear in front of her colleagues for someone untrained in these situations. Even now, as the reality of her predicament was hitting home, there was an upright pride in her posture; Orlesians weren’t used to being made to feel helpless. 

“The password to disarm the traps,” came Hestia’s easy reply. “Thea here has confirmed you’ve managed to disable all those on this level. We specifically need the ones for the lower floors.”

“I don’t understand.” Tatienne shook her head, frowning. “There’s nothing on those floors except…” Then realization dawned. She looked from Hestia to Thea behind her - another name quickly committed to memory - to her other henchman, her confusion only growing. “What kind of Venatori are you?” 

Hestia laughed, and the others followed suit. “Who said we were Venatori?” 

Okay, so not Venatori, the Bull thought. Or at least, not anymore. He’d recognized the telltale signs in the man he’d killed, and he saw it in Hestia too. She had been Venatori at some point. Clearly that had changed, but he didn’t much care why. What he did care about was what was in those lower floors. First, though, he had to figure out how to get Tatienne out of this room without alerting anyone to his own presence. 

Hestia had stopped laughing by then, and her expression had gone deadly serious. 

“The password, if you please.” 

Behind Tatienne, Thea shifted, making her flinch, but she didn’t take her eyes off Hestia for even a moment. Her face had become a mask of politeness that he recognized from his own dealings with Orlesians as the look reserved for those deemed too insignificant to debate. 

“I’m afraid our research hasn’t gotten us that far.” 

He’d have known it for a lie even if he hadn’t already been told that their celebrations this very evening were thanks to a breakthrough translation that had given them exactly what Hestia was looking for. Hestia knew it too, and her mouth tightened in annoyance. 

“I won’t ask again,” she said quietly. 

“I’m telling you,” Tatienne insisted, putting on her best customer service smile. “I don’t have it. I guess you’ll just have to kill me.” 

A pause fell over the room, and the Bull held his breath. It was a bluff, but would Hestia call it? She still needed the password, after all. Then Hestia sighed. 

“Very well.” 

Her eyes flitted over to Thea, who raised her arm and flicked her wrist. Tatienne fell forward, a single bolt protruding from the back of her skull. It all happened so quickly the Bull hadn’t had time to do anything. All he could do was watch. 

Son of a bitch… 

“We’ll just have to do it the hard way. Thea, you can get through the traps manually?”

Thea smiled sweetly. “You didn’t bring me along because you like the sound of my voice.”

“Then go, and take Marcus and the Big One with you. I want regular reports on progress.” Thea moved to obey, but as an afterthought, Hestia called out with a sigh, “And send Karla in here on your way out.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorian didn’t need to be told what had happened to Tatienne. When the henchmen emerged from the room a few short minutes after entering and Tatienne didn’t, he knew exactly what had happened. When her body was unceremoniously dumped outside the room a few moments later covered in a sheet, he was unsurprised, but no less infuriated. 

He let out a few choice curses, disguised by the murmured panic that passed through the rest of the scholars when they saw the body. 

“She should have just given them what they wanted,” Harris said beside him. 

“That would have just left us all in an even worse position,” Dorian hissed back. He wasn’t about to let her death be passed off as foolish. “Once they get what they want, what use do you think they’ll have for us?” 

“But they’d let us go, wouldn’t they?” 

He didn’t even dignify that with a response, only shook his head in pitying disgust and continued to watch the comings and goings of the henchmen. One of the blood mages had just spoken briefly with Crossbow and was walking into the side room where the leader still was. The door once again shut, but soon after loud, angry shouting could be heard from within. That got Dorian’s attention. 

Carefully, he inched himself as close to the room as he dared, straining to hear what was being said. Harris followed to his annoyance, but he didn’t protest for fear of catching Scar’s notice. That one was itching for an excuse to kill one of them. 

Even a few feet from the door, he couldn’t make out everything, but he did make out a few key words. 

“---dead---”

“---revenge!”

“---stupid---” 

More yelling and crashing could be heard, followed by the door slamming open, sending the scholars into a brief panic. But all that happened was the woman - Bandolier, for the blood vials hanging around her torso - stormed out and marched furiously across the hall, kicking a stray bucket violently on her way. 

“She looks pissed,” Harris whispered, more curious than worried. 

“Something’s gone wrong,” Dorian murmured, as a slow smile spread across his face, which he quickly hid from view by looking down at the ground. “He’s alive.” 

“Who?” 

“Only Bull could drive somebody that crazy.” Dorian’s smile widened. Maybe they weren’t quite as screwed as he thought. If Bull was out there… 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me!” Now Harris sounded worried. “Whatever your boy toy is planning, he’d better knock it the fuck off before he gets us killed!” 

“Keep your voice down!” Dorian hissed. “He’s our best chance at surviving this, believe me. So for now, keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid.” 

Harris looked like he might argue, but then he smiled that smarmy grin again and winked. “You know me, baby.” 

Yeah, Dorian thought. That’s what I’m worried about.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Bull sighed in grateful relief when his feet touched solid ground once more. After what felt like hours but more likely was mere minutes, he’d finally found an upper level room that was well enough removed from the activity in the main hall to risk reentry. He’d just finished wriggling his massive form through the narrow window with just a few scratches across the bare skin of his chest. 

He only allowed a brief moment of respite, however, before exiting and making his way quietly down the hall toward what he hoped was a stairwell. He needed to make his way down so he could follow Thea and Marcus and whoever the Big One was to hopefully take them out without getting anyone else’s attention - or setting off any traps. 

Grumbling about ancient magics, he reached the end of the hall only to find, to his dismay, that the large empty shaft did not contain stairs after all. It was instead what he assumed was a ventilation shaft, meant to circulate air from outside. Unfortunately, without more knowledge of the layout of the temple, he couldn’t risk wandering around until he found the stairs. He remembered Dorian mentioning that this place was a bit of a labyrinthe if you didn’t know where you were going. 

Still, he also wasn’t nearly nimble enough to try and scale that wall without anything to grab onto. He could see windows and doorways that opened out onto lower floors, but they were too far to make a jump for it without risking missing and falling to his death. A quick search of the nearest rooms gave him an idea, however. Using the sheets from several beds, he was able to fashion a makeshift rope that should hopefully hold his weight. Nearby was a statue that looked like some elven version of a knight except it was riding a halla. He secured one end of the “rope” to the halla’s leg and lowered the rest down the shaft. It disappeared into the darkness below. Way below. He grunted in dismay, shaking his head.

“‘Come out to Orlais…’” he mumbled to himself in falsetto mockery of Dorian’s posh accent. “‘We’ll get together, have a few laughs…’” 

With great reluctance and much cursing, he heaved himself over the edge and began lowering, foot by terrifying foot, down the shaft. All was going smoothly until he was about three floors down, when something shifted above him, making him freeze. He listened intently, but there was no movement; at least, not from a body. Then the sheets stuttered in his grip and he dropped an inch, even though he hadn’t moved. 

Oh fuck. 

The halla leg must be giving way. He should have secured the sheets to something more sturdy, he lamented as he frantically tried lowering himself down enough to get within arm’s reach of the nearest window. Unfortunately, it was across the shaft, about three or four feet from his fingertips. 

Desperate, he kicked off from the wall, still holding the sheet with one hand as he swung across, reaching with the other hand. His fingers reached the windowsill… and scraped off the edge without making purchase. He landed back against his wall with a hard thud, grunting at the impact. Above, the sheet shuddered again and he dropped another inch. No telling how much longer that leg would hold. He tried again, kicking off and swinging over, a little gentler this time. Too gentle. His hand didn’t come within a foot of the window, and he landed against the wall again, this time feeling a painful pop in his left shoulder that traveled all the way down his arm. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. 

The sheet fell, this time by several feet, and his newly dislocated shoulder was jarred when it came to a stop. He looked up, seeing the top of the shaft where he’d entered. The leg had given way at last, but through sheer luck was now caught across the lower corner of the archway. 

He looked back over to the window, now at eye level with him. He had one more shot. He breathed in once, then back out. Again. And once more. 

Then he kicked one last time… 

… And plunged into the shaft below. 

Fear took over as his heart jumped to his throat and his stomach took up residence where his heart had been as he fell. But then in the next beat his conditioning conquered the fear, and he reached out, grabbing for purchase wherever he could find it. 

With another excruciating wrench to his shoulder and a cry of pain he couldn’t help, his downward momentum came to an abrupt halt. After he mastered his breathing and was able to open his eyes, he saw that he’d fallen only about thirty feet or so, and his hand was clinging tightly to a wider archway. Even better, he’d managed to keep his grip on the sheet, which had dislodged completely from above and was now dangling into the darkness below. A light tap, tap, tap as it swung back and forth told him the stone halla leg was still attached to the other end. 

Good. He’d have a backup weapon now, at least. 

His left arm was useless for the moment aside from the death grip it was maintaining, so he wound the sheet around his torso enough times to be certain he wouldn’t lose it, and used his right arm to hoist himself up and out of the shaft, collapsing onto the cold stone ground, relieved. Hopefully there would be no more of that. 

His relief was short-lived, however, as running footsteps to his right warned of approaching enemies. He rolled onto his feet and scanned the room quickly for cover. He was in what looked like a tomb, with two rows of sarcophagi stretching out to either side of him. He darted behind the closest one just as Thea and Marcus rushed into the room, her with her crossbow readied and him with his sword brandished. He was about to make his move when a third one ran in, giving him pause. 

The third one was Qunari, and presumably whom Hestia had referred to as the Big One. Because he was, indeed, big, even by the Bull’s standards. He’d assumed Hestia was just being funny, but it was equally likely that was simply what they’d decided to call him. Blood mages, templars, rogues, and now Qunari? This was definitely an interesting group. 

“I’m telling you, I heard someone in here!” Thea was saying, but Marcus didn’t look convinced. 

“You’re hearing things. Back to work! Hestia will want an update soon.” 

The Bull contemplated letting them leave, but he wasn’t likely to get a better chance than this. He stood, and instantly three pairs of eyes locked onto him. If he could block the three shots from the crossbow, that would take Thea out of the fight; he didn’t see any daggers on her. Then Marcus would be easy pickings, and that would just leave him with the Big One. 

All three of them stared him down for a moment, and just when he was beginning to wonder if he should make the first move, the first bolt whizzed past his head, striking him across the cheek. Reflexively, he ducked and rolled to his left, hearing the next two strike harmlessly against stone behind him. 

Good, that took care of the rogue. 

Even as he rose and scanned the room again, though, his face fell. He hadn’t counted on her having reloads handy. Before she could finish cranking the crossbow, he closed the distance and tackled her to the ground, grabbing hold of the offending weapon and yanking it away. The leather strap securing it to her wrist gave easily, and he took it with him as he rolled off of her, feeling the breeze of Marcus’s sword pass over him as he did. 

Thea was up and running, out of the room and out of the fight now that her primary weapon was gone. 

One down. 

He kept the Big One in his periphery as he and Marcus circled each other, but the former seemed content to merely watch for now, slinging his enormous greatsword over one shoulder. Reaching to his belt, the Bull pulled out his stolen broadsword. It felt far too small in his massive grip, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Marcus lunged and he tried to parry, but he was used to much larger weapons and his muscle memory failed to account for this. Marcus’s sword easily got around his guard and sliced a nasty gash up his forearm before he stepped back. It stung, but not nearly as bad as the bolt from the crossbow - Probably poisoned, the strategic part of his brain was thinking. Again, Marcus lunged, but this time he knew to compensate, and blade struck blade with a resounding clang. 

Marcus may have been more skilled with his weapon, but in a grapple the Bull was the clear winner. He caught Marcus’s arm and turned before he could disengage, hurling him over his shoulder to land roughly onto his back. He didn’t let go, continuing to bend the arm at an angle it wasn’t meant for, until he heard the telltale snap and Marcus screamed in pain. Not hesitating, he lifted his sword and brought it straight down, piercing through the rib cage with little trouble. There was a gasp, then a gurgle as lungs filled with blood, then his eyes glazed over and he was dead. 

Two down. 

That just left the Big One. The Bull turned to face him now, grabbing the halla leg in his off hand for good measure; he was going to need any advantage he could get against this guy. They began circling each other in a mirror of what he and Marcus had been doing only a moment before. 

“I know who you are,” the Big One said. His sword remained slung across his shoulder, but he carefully removed the hefty bag and placed it in a corner, where it was unlikely to be trampled. 

“You think so?” 

“Hissrad.” 

He made sure not to react to his old Qunari name, but his muscles nonetheless tightened at the unpleasant memories it stirred. 

“You won’t kill me.” The Big One smiled.

“Why not?” Now the Bull was curious. 

“It would interfere in my assignment. The Qun must be obeyed.”

Now the Bull allowed a slow smile to creep across his face, and it was the Big One’s turn to be confused.

“Your informants must be out of date,” he said, and attacked. 

His lunge took him right up to his opponent’s guard, but the Big One was ready. He brought his greatsword down with crushing force, and the halla leg shattered beneath its momentum, forcing the Bull to change course at the last second, lest he receive the rest of the blow straight into his skull. He rolled, and came up against a sarcophagus that blocked his path. The greatsword came down again, and the Bull thrust his own smaller sword up between them to block.

Fuck, he’s strong.

His earlier advantage at grappling was no good here. So, he thrust one knee up between the Big One’s legs, aiming for the groin, but he dodged easily, breaking their grapple and stepping backward a pace. 

And he’s fast.

Things were looking bad. His shoulder still ached, leaving him one arm down, and his weapon couldn’t compare to his opponent’s. Not to mention the terrain wasn’t exactly in his favor. The Big One took a step toward him and he reversed, rolling onto the sarcophagus to gain the higher ground. The Big One only smiled, and swung his greatsword in a wide arc at his knees, forcing him to jump. On the back swing, he jumped again and used his good arm to flip over the other side, giving himself a barrier. 

The barrier didn’t last past a single downward swing by the greatsword, shattering into rubble. The Bull retreated and brought his sword up again to block another swing, grimacing at the impact. Behind him, he knew, barely a pace away was the air shaft. He was being forced back, inch by inch. 

Nope, no way was he going back down that fucker. That did give him an idea, though. 

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he acted on it; he allowed his foot to slip, just slightly, enough to force the Big One’s momentum forward. Then, he relinquished his grip on his own sword, taking a strike to his flank that made him roar in anguish, even as he grabbed the blade close to the hilt. He smiled, making the Big One pause for just a moment in confusion. 

Then he sidestepped, keeping his grip on the blade and pushing with the other hand, using the Big One’s momentum against him and pushing him past, straight into the air shaft. 

“Have a nice trip,” the Bull called down after him. The scream lasted a very long time, until it stopped abruptly, leaving the room in silence. 

The Bull held up the greatsword with an approving grunt, liking the weight of it much better than the piddling one-hander he’d been using. This would definitely come in handy. As an afterthought, he grabbed the small crossbow too, hanging it by its straps off his belt. 

“Now let’s see what else you got here....”

He began rifling through the large bag the Big One had been carrying, hoping for some bandages or maybe even some food. What he did find, however, made him freeze, and his blood turned as cold as the Orlesian winter outside.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The Big One?” Hestia knew from the look on Thea’s face that the news wouldn’t be good, but she didn’t expect it to be this bad. “But he had the sulfur…” 

This was very bad. Thea had come running back after barely an hour to tell Hestia that both Marcus and the Big One had been killed by some mystery Qunari that turned up out of nowhere. Hestia hazarded a guess that this was the man who killed Antonius, but that was hardly her concern right now. Without that key ingredient the Big One had been guarding, they couldn’t set off their grand finale, and without that, the trail to find them would be wide open. 

“Fuck.” 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

The question came from one of the hostages - a man with Tevinter features and the kind of handsome face that just oozed self-confidence. The care put into his moustache and undercut alone must have taken years to perfect. She sneered in obvious disdain, having a strong distaste for such frivolity.

He was being led by Edmond into the side room that Hestia had made her impromptu headquarters for the duration of their time here. Everything about his manner spoke of confidence and barely contained fury. He kept his hands to his sides, but she could tell he badly wanted to clock her one across the face. The baldric slung across his shoulder was clearly designed to hold a mage’s staff. 

Her sneer transformed into a smile. She knew who this man was. 

“Dorian, black sheep of House Pavus,” she said, prompting his eyes to narrow but otherwise eliciting no reaction from him. “So the Inquisition is investing in elven ruins? How interesting.” 

Dorian shrugged. “Not particularly. The Inquisition is willing to seek out any advantage against our adversaries. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been asked on behalf of my fellow hostages to deliver a few requests. I assume you’d be the one to ask?” 

“What idiot put you in charge?” 

“You did, when you murdered the lead scholar.” He swallowed, the only hint of his true feelings on the matter. “Now everyone’s looking to me. Personally I’d pass on the responsibility. My normal duties don’t include negotiating with terrorists.” 

Hestia didn’t bother correcting him. For their purposes, the label worked just fine. 

“Then why have you agreed?” she asked instead. 

He shrugged. “I may get some hazard pay out of this when it’s all over.” 

Again, Hestia didn’t bother correcting him, merely nodded. 

“Alright, what do they want?” 

“Well for starters, there’s quite a few in there of the aging variety---” Hestia couldn’t help a beleaguered sigh, but Dorian talked over her. “---Oh relax, no one’s about to keel over any time soon - from natural causes, anyway - but all this sitting on the ground isn’t really helping their poor bones, so I’d like permission to take some of the oldest into another room where there’s actual furniture.”

“No,” Hestia refused automatically. Considering, however, she relented partially. “But I’ll have some of the men bring in furniture to the main hall. Will that do?” 

“It’ll have to, I suppose. Also, unless you want things to get messy, I’d suggest you start taking us to the latrine in small groups pretty soon.” 

Hestia winced. She should have planned for that. “Yes, you’re right. It will be done.” 

“Good.” 

Dorian looked as though he was about to turn to leave, but something caught his eye on the side table behind her, making him pause. His eyes widened for just a moment before flitting away again. 

“Anything else?” Hestia prompted. 

When Dorian looked back, his expression was carefully neutral. 

“No, that’s all for now.” He allowed Edmond to escort him back out to the main room. 

When he was out of sight, Hestia turned to look over the items on the table for what might have caught his eye. All she saw were some scattered papers and writing utensils, along with some random baubles from the temple. And, was that…? 

“A sending crystal?” 

She reached over and picked it up, examining it closely. Yes, definitely. These were rare outside Tevinter. What use would a group of researchers have for them? She considered sending for Dorian again, but thought better of it. He wasn’t likely to answer any questions willingly, and she didn’t want to be forced to kill him unless it was truly necessary. It was better for her purposes if the hostages believed they were getting out of this. At least for now. 

What she needed right now was to get that bag of sulfur back.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorian’s head was spinning as he tried desperately to think of a plan. He had his sending crystal in his room, likely still lying on the bedside table. It was a long shot, but if Bull still had his… 

“You’re trying to think of a plan.” 

Harris kept his voice low, but Dorian gave him a warning look anyway. The last thing he needed was to catch the attention of Scar. It had taken all his charm just to get the man to let him in to see the leader. Any further noise from him would likely result in his untimely demise. He knew if he could just get that sending crystal, he could send Bull a message, give him details on the terrorists, do something that could help. But there was no way he’d be able to get back to his room without being noticed. 

“Don’t do it.” Harris shifted closer. “Whatever you’re thinking of, all you’ll do is get yourself and the rest of us killed. We have to let them finish whatever they came here to do, then they’ll leave us alone.” 

“You really think they’ll let us leave this place alive?” Dorian hadn’t missed the leader’s hesitation when he’d made his comment about hazard pay. And he didn’t at all like what that implied. 

But Harris shook his head, refusing to entertain the thought. “We just have to cooperate, and we’ll be fine. Why would they need to kill us unless we got in their way?” 

Dorian gave up. No point arguing, it didn’t change what he knew. He had to tell Bull all of this. He had to get to that sending crystal. The gears in his head were spinning again. They would hopefully start taking people to the latrine soon. He recalled that the latrine was on the upper level, and not too far from his own quarters. And it connected to an air shaft. 

He managed to hold back a smile. Now the idea was formed, all he had to do was wait.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m tellin’ ya, you worry too much,” Sera slurred drunkenly over the pint she was gripping. 

Krem only grunted in response. He knew he was the serious one among the Chargers, but it was a role he took on willingly. He’d always been a worrier, and if no one else was going to take things seriously then he may as well. At least things got done under his watch. So he let Sera continue grumbling while Dalish, Rocky, and the others chuckled and nodded their agreement. It was all in jest, no harm done. 

But there was still the little matter that had been bugging him all evening. 

A covered wagon had passed by the camp earlier that afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’d willingly stopped and allowed the contents to be inspected - lots of crates, labeled as more digging and cleaning tools - and while the drivers were an interesting pair, nothing stood out about them that justified keeping them any longer. So Krem had given the okay to let them continue up to the temple. 

So why was there a nagging feeling that he’d missed something? 

It didn’t help that the Chief had promised to contact him when he got to the temple. He’d even left his sending crystal, saying that he’d just use Dorian’s when he got there. Faster than sending a runner. But he’d heard nothing all day. And he would have definitely beaten that wagon getting there.

As if on cue, the sending crystal hanging around his neck began to glow a pale pink, sputtering to life. 

“Ah, there ya see?” Sera swayed a bit in her seat as she pointed to the crystal. “Big’un’s jus’ fine! Prob’ly just *hic!* having a slap’n’tickle with his---”

“---Hissrad?” came the voice through the sending crystal. The voice was not the Chief’s. In fact, it sounded like… 

“Dorian?” Krem could feel his heart rate pick up. Why would Dorian be using the Chief’s Qunari name? Why would he be asking for the Chief in the first place? 

“Krem?” Dorian sounded just as surprised - and just as worried. 

“What’s happened?” 

“You have to send guards, they’ve taken over the temple and Bull is---” 

But something interrupted him. The sounds were muffled, but Krem distinctly heard the familiar sound of a punch landing. Dorian grunted in pain, then there was silence. After a moment, the crystal’s glow faded, ending the connection. 

Krem pressed his hands into the table, rising and meeting the gazes of the rest of the Chargers, as well as Sera. All were stone cold sober now. 

“Right, you heard the man,” Krem announced, letting his voice carry across the forward camp. “We need guards up there, pronto! Get moving! I wanna be at that entrance within the hour!”

No one needed to be told twice.


	3. Chapter 3

The commotion among the hostages got Hestia’s attention well before Dorian was brought into her office, semi-conscious and dragged by the arms on either side by Karla and Edmond. He looked beaten, badly, and the furious glare from Edmond’s scarred visage told Hestia all she needed to know. 

“Throw him down an air shaft,” she ordered. 

“Wait!” One of the other hostages, a young-looking man with sharp features and platinum-blond hair came up to the doorway. His eyes flitted in concern over Dorian’s appearance before returning to Hestia and smoothing over into a placating smile. “You don’t want to do that.” 

“Oh I really think I do,” Hestia returned his smile with one of her own, cold and cruel as a knife. “And unless you want to join him, I suggest you go back to your colleagues and stay silent about this.” 

She nodded to Edmond, who unceremoniously dropped Dorian’s arm and moved to shove the young scholar away, but he resisted. 

“I know who’s been giving you so much trouble!” he said, eyes wild and desperate. 

Edmond paused, looking to Hestia for orders. She narrowed her eyes, then nodded, and he reluctantly backed off, returning to his place by Dorian, who was groaning in pain on the ground now and blinking up at his surroundings in wary confusion. 

“And just who might you be?” Hestia asked. 

“Nevermind who I am.” The scholar was in full charm mode now, eliciting a roll of Hestia’s eyes. “It’s what I can give you that’s the important thing. But not for nothing, of course.” 

“Of course.” Hestia gestured to a seat at the table. She could play along as long as she got what she needed. And what she needed was that bag this mystery guest had taken. 

“Harris, don’t…” Dorian murmured, but a swift backfist from Edmond stopped any further protest. He spit out blood and glared silently up at him before transferring a pleading gaze and a shake of his head to the young scholar. 

“Harris, then?” Hestia again gestured to the seat. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

Harris hesitated, then sat. “Sorry, Dorian, I’m not dying for this place. And I won’t let you die either.”

“I assume that’ll be your first concession?” Hestia asked, a forcibly bland smile plastered across her face, her brows lifted invitingly. 

“I’m willing to help you get this situation under control, provided you guarantee his life---” he pointed to Dorian, “My life, and the other hostages when all this is over.” 

“And just how are you going to do that?” 

Harris didn’t hesitate. “I can give you the man fucking up your plan.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Shit, shit, shit…” 

The Iron Bull rapidly ascended, taking the steps three and four at a time in his hurry. The contents of that bag from the Big One had spooked him enough that he needed to see for himself. Dozens of vials of sulfur; harmless enough on its own, but given who had been carting it around, and given who he worked for… 

He’d needed to see for himself, and he had. All the way down on the bottom level, in an otherwise empty room save for a massive vault door taking up one entire wall, were enormous barrels placed at key support points, dozens of them, one for each of the vials of sulfur, unsealed and waiting.

Gaatlok. 

Well, not actual gaatlok. It needed the sulfur before it could be activated. Once that was added, though, there was more than enough of the shit to completely lay low not only the temple but probably a good chunk of the mountainside. 

And as for everyone inside… 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” 

He cursed with each step as he propelled himself upward as fast as he could. He needed to warn the hostages. He needed to get them all out of here. Whatever these bastards were planning, it wasn’t going to end happily for anyone who wasn’t them. 

By the time he finally reached the top level, he was panting and sorely in need of a break. His shoulder still ached even after he’d popped it back into place, and the large gash down his left flank was still bleeding from the fight. He was stubborn, though, and fell back on his years of training and physical conditioning, pressing determinedly on and gritting his teeth past the pain and the exhaustion. 

What he needed was a way to get in touch with the forward camp. There were guards down there, and scouts. And his men. The Chargers would make short work of this bunch of assholes. If only he could figure out how to get in touch with them. 

Then a memory hit him like a punch in the gut and he stopped short. 

Fuck. He did have a way to contact them! 

Cursing his own stupidity, he remembered he’d left his sending crystal with Krem earlier that day. Dorian had the other half. All he had to do was figure out how to get to Dorian without being seen. He was moving again, but then came to another abrupt halt as his memory caught up with him. 

No, Dorian hadn’t been wearing it today. He’d left it on his bedside table when he went down to the party, because he had agreed to let him borrow it. He could only hope none of the henchmen had noticed it or thought it worth stealing. To the untrained eye, after all, it would just look like cheap quartz on a silverite chain. 

It took him a quick moment to get his bearings and retrace his steps to Dorian’s quarters. His eyes locked in on the bedside table, but the crystal wasn’t there. 

“Fuck!” 

He shouted before he could stop himself. There went his last hope. Forlorn, he sat on the bed, trying to think of his next move. 

“Hello?” 

The voice came from within the room, and his first instinct was to crouch into a fighting stance, but there was no one else there. Could that mean…?

“Iron Bull? Are you there?” 

There it was again, and now that he was alert, he easily traced the voice to its source beneath the bed. There! The sending crystal must have been knocked over at some point. It was glowing faint pink now, and the voice on the other end was still calling out to him. It wasn’t Krem, but it sounded familiar. 

“Who is this?” he demanded as he settled the crystal’s chain around his neck to hang down his chest. He wasted no time waiting for an answer before heading once more out the window and working his way over the outside wall, feeling for foot and hand grips that by now were almost familiar. 

“Aw, I’m hurt, ole buddy. Don’t you remember me from all these years?” 

He frowned. “Harris?” What was he playing at? 

“You got it, my friend. Now listen---” 

“---Harris, where are you right now?” 

“I’m with the leader of the group that took over the temple.” 

There was some shuffling on the other end, then a new, female voice came through next. “Hestia Galataius, pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard an awful lot about your exploits over the years, Iron Bull. Or should I say… Hissrad?” 

He paused his efforts. If she knew that name, what else did she know? 

“Wish I could say the same, but I guess you have me at a disadvantage,” he replied, keeping his voice neutral. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with Harris?” 

“Straight to the point, I like that. Harris, now would be a good time to demonstrate your usefulness.” 

More shuffling, then Harris’s voice came back. “Look, Bull, buddy, I know why you’re doing all this, and I love you for it, but you need to give it up. All you’re gonna do is get us all killed. And I know there’s people here you’d rather see make it out of here.” 

“Harris, I need you to listen.” He needed to pick his words carefully. He couldn’t let on to any potential weaknesses. “What exactly did you tell them?” 

“That you were invited here on behalf of the Inquisition, as extra protection for our dig. And that you agreed as a favor to me.” 

The Bull managed not to swear aloud, but only barely. If they knew he was here on behalf of the Inquisition, there was a good chance they recognized Dorian as well. And if they knew that, they likely knew Harris was talking out of his asshole. 

“Put Hestia back on,” he growled through gritted teeth. He was nearly at the window that looked in on the office now. Maybe if he moved fast enough… 

“So what do you say, Hissrad?” Hestia asked. He could practically hear the snakelike smirk through the crystal. 

“You listen to me you piece of shit,” he began, not bothering to conceal his disgust. “Harris may not know the kind of person you are, but I do. I’ve been to the lower levels---” 

“---Then you know exactly how far I’ll go to get what I want. Give me my sulfur, or say goodbye to your beloved childhood friend.” 

“You and I both know he means nothing to me.” 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d miscalculated. There was a beat of silence that went on for just a fraction too long before he heard a response. 

“Is that so?” 

Silence for another beat, followed by a frightened shout that he recognized as Harris’s voice, then a slice of steel and a wet, strangled noise cut short. The Bull grimaced. He should have known better than to call her bluff, after what he’d seen her do to Tatienne. 

Sorry, Harris… 

“I have dozens more hostages to go through, Hissrad, and believe me I will. Unless you give me what I want. And sooner or later, I might just get to someone you do care about.” 

But he was barely listening, because then a third voice began shouting in the background, hurling curses and angrily calling for their painful deaths for what they’d just done. A voice he knew all too well. He clung to the wall, finally able to look into the office just in time to see Harris’s body carried out into the great hall to the frightened screams of the rest of the scholars. Hestia was giving orders to her henchman, one of which - the one with the scarred sneer - had Dorian bound and was in the process of gagging him to shut him up. When even that failed to work, one nod from Hestia led to a hard strike across the back of his skull, knocking him out. 

Climbing back to the roof to give his muscles time to rest, he reexamined his position. All he had was a bag of sulfur and a greatsword. He’d lost the element of surprise, he’d lost his one method of contact to the outside. 

And they still had Dorian.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What in Andraste’s holy name does this lowlife brigand think he’s doing?!” 

Krem maintained a calm demeanor as the chevalier unleashed his rage in his face. It was a reasonable reaction to what they’d just overheard through the sending crystal, but it was directed at the wrong target, and when the chevalier paused to draw breath, Krem said as much. 

“And, pray tell, who should we be directing this rage against?” 

“How about the terrorists taking the research team hostage in the first place?” Krem asked, only half-rhetorically. The chevalier scoffed at him, then spoke to his companion in Orlesian for a few moments. 

The pair of them had arrived only a few moments after Krem had rounded up all the fighters at the forward base and began moving them up the mountain path. The chevaliers had come riding up behind them, waving flags and announcing themselves loudly. They even had a bard in tow, which had made Krem roll his eyes and Sera - who had insisted on bringing her blighted rickety cart - snicker and say some rather nasty jokes about Orlesians. 

“Right.” 

The chevalier Krem had been talking to, whose name was Duke Jacques Something-or-Other, returned to speaking in Common for Krem’s benefit. He could have told them he spoke enough Orlesian to understand the numerous snide remarks he’d just overheard, but decided to leave it be for now. He returned the condescending tone with another bland expression, and listened. 

“When we arrive at the temple,” Jacques was saying, “we will take charge of matters, so you will follow our lead.” 

“Excuse me?” Now Krem’s expression changed to disbelief and bubbling anger. “It’s our people in there, not yours.”

“This temple is on Orlesian land,” Jacques replied imperiously. “Therefore, it is the property of Her Majesty Empress Celene. Therefore, we are in charge of matters, under her authority. Your inside man has already bungled this and allowed a defenseless hostage to be killed. From now on, we will give the orders.” 

“You can’t be serious!” Krem was about to argue the point further, but that was when Sera pushed in front of him.

“You bunch’a pisshead, arse-faced, panty-waist, frog-brained…!” A slew of curses and near-incomprehensible rage continued spewing from her mouth, and Krem had to devote the next several minutes to calming her down so as not to start an international incident. 

By that time, the chevaliers had moved ahead and were confidently dispensing orders to the Chargers and the other soldiers, who promptly ignored them and went right back to their own conversations. It made Krem a little proud to see, and he knew the Chief would have been too. 

Behind him, the bard had begun tuning his instrument and was starting up a contemplative, slightly melancholy tune while humming to himself. Krem caught a few stray words here and there, enough to realize the bard was already trying to compose a ballad out of this whole mess. 

“Figures,” he muttered to himself. “Leave it to Orlesians to travel with singing narrators…” 

“Yeah,” came a familiar voice over the sending crystal. “They’re kind of the worst.” 

“Chief?” Krem was a little aghast that he hadn’t remembered to deactivate the sending crystal, and more than a little horrified at how much might have been overheard. “Shit, are you in a safe place?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” His tone didn’t quite match the reassuring words. “I’m sure Hestia and her cronies overheard most of that, but I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ve clearly got a plan in place and don’t seem worried about outside interference.” 

“It definitely sounds like we should be worried.” 

A half-hearted chuckle was his only answer. Krem tried to think of what else to say, now they had a connection established, but he knew he had to be careful. There was only so much they would be able to say over an open line. 

“Hang in there, Chief. You know you’ve got reinforcements coming. I know those chevaliers don’t sound like much, but you’ve seen how useful they can be. Plus, your men are hurting for a good fight.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on it. Hang on…” There was some shifting and grunting on the other end, then quiet. “I’m gonna have to make myself scarce for a while. Can’t risk them getting hold of this sulfur.” 

“Chief, is that for what I think it’s for?” 

“Yep.” 

“...Shit.” 

“Yep.” 

Krem didn’t know the whole makeup of gaatlok, but he knew sulfur was the active agent. And that put a whole new spin on things. He’d have to warn the chevaliers, and hope they’d listen. 

“Take care of yourself, Chief.” 

“You know me.” There was another chuckle, and Krem could practically hear the sarcastic smile through the crystal. Then it went quiet, and the faint glow faded. 

With a sigh, Krem deactivated his line before going to warn the chevaliers.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thea! Report!” 

Hestia’s voice rang through the cramped lower halls of the temple, and Thea flinched as she carefully set down the crowbar she’d been using to pry at a pressure plate. She took several measured steps away from the device before turning and acknowledging Hestia with a crisp nod. She was more than a little nervous; Hestia never liked hearing bad news. 

“I’ve just about finished with this level,” she said carefully. “But the last set is… beyond my expertise I’m afraid. Maybe if I had unlimited time, or a miracle…” 

But when she expected a tirade, Hestia smiled instead. 

“We have better than a miracle,” she said. “We have chevaliers.” 

“Ma’am?” 

“We will proceed as planned. Once you’ve finished here, go back up top and tell Edmond and Karla to start rounding the hostages down here. If you don’t hear from me by then, send them down to find me.”

As she spoke, she began moving further down the hall toward a side passage that Thea knew did not lead back to the top levels. 

“And, where will you be?” she asked. 

“I’m going to get my sulfur back,” Hestia replied with confident menace before disappearing into the darkness of the passage. 

Thea shuddered and went back to work. She didn’t envy whoever this lurker was. What Hestia wanted, Hestia got. One way or another.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hestia moved through the passages with practiced ease that came from years of training. Her time among the Venatori had only been among her more recent credentials, and they had proven to be little more than a dead end. As far as she was concerned, they were little better than upstart slave rebellions, making grand promises of a return to glory while resorting to mere child’s tricks and guerilla warfare. 

Such things were beneath her. And after this caper was over with, she would be set for life. 

The fantasy was still playing itself out in her mind as she rounded a corner… 

… And came up against a massive wall of grey muscle, pierced in the flank by a bleeding gash and topped with two horns pointing straight up. A single, cold eye was looking down at her in mild surprise, and a hulking greatsword that she recognized as having once belonged to the Big One was slung casually over one awkwardly bulging shoulder. A sack was draped over the other, weighed down by what she could only assume were dozens of glass vials. 

Her sulfur. 

And this was Hissrad. 

They stood like that for a long moment, both caught unawares, both unsure what to do. But Hestia was hard to shake, and thinking quickly, she held out both hands and began to tremble, twisting her face into an expression of fear and panic. 

“Oh Maker, please don’t hurt me!” She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together, pleading. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to escape, I just wanted to---”

“---Hey, hey, keep it down.” Hissrad looked down at her, scrutinizing her closely. Even she had to admit it was an unsettling gaze, and she used that feeling to further fuel her performance, allowing a single tear to drop from one eye. After a moment, he nodded at her and held out his free hand to help her up. “I’m not one of the bad guys, you can relax. How’d you get away?” 

“I-I t-told them I needed the b-bathroom, and when their backs were t-turned, I just ran…” 

“And you ended up all the way down here, huh? Not the brightest, are ya?” 

She bit her tongue on a number of responses that would have blown her cover, and instead rubbed at the back of her neck self-consciously, allowing a light chuckle to escape her lips. 

“Heh, yeah, I guess I got more turned around than I thought.” 

There was another pregnant pause, then Hissrad gestured with a jerk of his head, the two massive horns swaying ominously as he did. 

“C’mon, stick with me. Safer that way.” 

Hestia nodded, managing to stop the smile from spreading across her face like an inchworm stretching to its full length until after he’d turned around to look down the path the way he’d come. When he turned back to face her, the smile was gone, replaced with wary attentiveness. 

“Let’s go back that way,” he suggested, gesturing down the path behind her. 

“No!” she replied, a little too quickly, making him frown. “I… I just came from there, and there’s nothing but traps. One nearly took my head off!” 

Hissrad smirked before nodding, and they decided to try the third path that led to the right. She knew from Thea’s reports that way only led to a few twists and turns, culminating in a dead end. That would buy her time. All she had to do was fool him long enough for her men to find her. Then she would deal with him and get her sulfur back. 

All she had to do was keep the act up long enough. 

“You a mage?” he asked her, looking over his shoulder as they made their slow way down the hall. 

Hestia cursed a little, realizing she still held her staff in hand. 

“Y-yes…” No sense in lying about it at any rate. “But one of the terrorists must be a templar, because I haven’t been able to use my magic since I got hit by him.” 

He nodded, saying nothing more. After a moment, he reached to his waistband and pulled out a small crossbow adapted to attach to the wrist. Thea’s crossbow.

“Here.” He handed her the crossbow and she took it, hesitantly. “Know how it works?” She shook her head. “Just point it and flick your wrist when you're ready to shoot. Bolts are poisoned, apparently.” He indicated a gash across one cheek that was angrily swollen and spewing pus. 

She nodded, and began affixing the device to her dominant wrist. She knew how it worked, of course. And now she had an advantage in the upcoming fight. Again, she waited until his attention was elsewhere to allow a small smile of victory to crawl across her face. 

When they eventually reached the dead end, Hissrad shrugged and directed them back the way they’d come. 

“Unless you wanna go crawling through that crack in the wall,” he joked. 

Hestia shared in the jest half-heartedly, privately wondering how much time had passed. She didn’t have to wait long. Just as they’d returned to the junction where they’d originally met, she heard the footsteps of her men coming for her. 

“Shit, incoming,” Hissrad muttered. “We’d better high-tail it out of---”

But he stopped short when he turned around to see Hestia with the crossbow pointed squarely at his chest. With a resigned sigh, he held out his hands in surrender. 

“Pretty tricky, playing the scared little hostage,” he admitted gruffly. 

“I’ll be taking that bag now.” Hestia didn’t bother hiding her smile this time. “And drop the sword, while you’re at it.” 

But he didn’t move. The footsteps behind him were growing louder, and the metallic singing of a sword being unsheathed echoed through the tunnel. 

Hestia flexed her wrist threateningly, and the gears in the crossbow creaked. “Now.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Have it your way,” Hestia replied, and flicked her wrist. 

Nothing happened. 

She tried again, and a gear fell out of the crossbow, rendering it useless. 

“Oops.” Hissrad shrugged, and an amused smirk spread across his face. “You think I’m fucking stupid, Hestia?” 

But just then, Karla and Edmond had caught up and he was forced on the defensive, swinging the massive sword around in a wide arc. Karla ducked, but Edmond caught the full force of the blade, nearly cloven in two and embedding sword and man into the wall behind him. He gasped in disbelief, coughing up blood that caught in his throat, then his eyes went blank, and he died. 

The sword was too firmly embedded, and Hissrad was forced to relinquish his grip to avoid the blast of fire from Hestia’s staff. Karla sliced into her palm and used the ensuing stream of blood to summon a rage demon, its flames joining Hestia’s and licking at Hissrad’s retreating form. 

He took a running leap to avoid a swing from its lava-like arms, vaulting over Hestia and bolting back down the corridor. 

Idiot, Hestia thought as she and Karla gave chase. He’s got nowhere to go but a dead end.

They barely managed to keep pace with him, the pair of women and the demon swapping attacks at his heels, keeping him running, unconcerned with catching him. Soon he’d have nowhere to run. When he came up against the dead end, he turned and faced his pursuers, breathing heavily and favoring the injured shoulder. 

“Give me the bag,” Hestia demanded one last time. “And I might let you join the other hostages rather than kill you where you stand.” 

“No thanks. I know what you plan to do with them.” 

And then Hissrad reached into the bag, pulled out two of the vials, and smashed them both on the ground, forcing a cry of rage from Hestia. Karla bolted forward, but he wasn’t done yet. He crouched low, dragging one of his horns across the ground, eliciting a shower of sparks across the pile of sulfur. 

Hestia’s realization dawned in a split second before the first spark landed, and she barely had time to turn and crouch, summoning a barrier just as the explosion rocked the stone walls around her, sending rubble and debris crashing around her, buffeting her ears and sending her sprawling painfully against the hard floor. She stayed where she was until the noise stopped, her ears ringing in the silence that followed. 

Smoke clogged the hall, choking her throat and sending her gagging and coughing. A firm hand at her shoulder told her that Karla had survived the blast as well. When the smoke began to clear, there was no one else in the hall. 

“He got away.” Karla’s voice was twisted in fury, still nursing her thirst for revenge. Her eyes were fixed on a narrow crack in the wall, now smeared with blood at its edges. 

“Nevermind him.” Hestia’s gaze was fixed on the bag laying sprawled on the floor, too bulky to fit in the tiny gap. Several of the vials had fallen out, but remained intact. “We got what we came for.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Krem looked up at the enormous temple entrance, its massive doors now shut and barricaded from the inside. The chevaliers were currently working out a plan between themselves and refusing to share it with him or any of the others. Sera was hurling bored insults at the bard, who was sitting against a rock nearby and plucking at his lute with little concern for her or anyone else. 

“Hey…” The Chief’s voice came through the sending crystal, gruff and pained. “Crem-de-la-creme, ya there buddy?” 

“Yeah, I’m here Chief.” He could hear the anguish in his boss’s voice, and his worry grew. “How are you holding up?” 

“Been better,” came the pained response. “I hope you guys are close.” 

“We’re here.” Krem answered honestly. No point in hiding it; anyone who looked out any of the numerous windows of the towering structure would see the lot of them standing about far, far below. “We’ll be chasing those bastards out of that temple in no time.” 

“Here’s hoping.” There was a pause, then he added in a voice as heavy as the swords he loved lugging around, “I fucked up, Krem. Had to leave the sulfur behind.” 

“Aw, that’s alright,” Krem responded, hoping he sounded reassuring. “Just means things’ll be more exciting now.”

Another pause, as behind him the bard’s song was shaping into a ballad, and his clear voice started ringing out in a hum like the great, low bells they hang on southern Chantrys. 

“Hey Krem…” 

“I’m still here, Chief.” 

“If I don’t make it out of here---”

“---Shut up, you idiot. You’ll make it out of there just fine.” 

But he pressed on. “If I don’t, tell… “ He paused, and Krem heard another grunt of pain and a hiss. He wondered what kinds of injuries he must have gotten to be talking like this. “Tell the mage that I’m… sorry. That I was stupid, let my pride get in the way of a good thing. Tell him he was right. He’ll like hearing that.” 

A chuckle, then another grunt. 

“Yeah, sure, okay Chief.” Krem didn’t have to ask which mage he meant, and he didn’t have to ask why he wasn’t willing to name him. The line was likely still open, after all. Which only meant that the Chief must really believe what he was saying to be willing to risk the terrorists overhearing. “But you can tell him yourself when you’re outta there.” 

Behind him, the bard changed from wordless humming to full on lyrics, and Krem realized it was about the Chief. The melancholy tune fit the mood perfectly. Krem decided he hated ballads. 

“O the winter has grown spiteful  
But the Bull’s iron will is prideful  
He strikes and lays a villain low  
Five to go, five to go, five to go

He doesn’t show signs of stopping  
Like flies his foes are dropping  
All for the man that he loves so  
Four to go, four to go, four to go

When they finally reunite  
Together they’ll face down the storm  
Bull and Dorian’s love will take flight  
And an inferno of passion will form!”

“What the fuck!” The Chief’s voice changed quickly, anger overcoming the pain. “Who the fuck is that singing?” 

Krem’s blood ran cold as he realized if the Chief could hear it, that meant so could the terrorists. He turned and ran for the bard, tackling him to the ground to stop his singing, but it was too late. The damage was already done.


	4. Chapter 4

Hestia had heard the whole conversation while she was dividing up the remaining vials of sulfur to the gaatlok barrels, and her creeping smile returned. 

“Bring me Dorian,” she ordered, and Karla rushed to obey. 

As she was pouring the last vial into a barrel, Thea came over with a sigh of defeat. 

“It’s no use, that last set of traps is too complicated. I can’t get to the vault without risking setting them off.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Hestia replied, uncaring. She had expected this. “Things are nearly ready here, and the chevaliers will be tearing through like bulls through a porcelain shop any minute now.” 

“I don’t understand.” Thea shook her head. “We want them to come in?” 

“Who else would be foolish enough to charge straight into the traps? The chevalier code of honor is so wonderfully predictable in situations such as these.” Hestia straightened, pride setting her shoulders square and her smile spread wider. “Honor will demand they risk their very lives to rescue the hostages. Even if they know they will perish, they must do everything in their power to save them.”

“And when they come through the lowest level…” 

“They’ll trigger the traps, which will set off the gaatlok, which will utterly destroy most of the temple.” 

“Leaving the vault intact!” Now Thea understood. 

Hestia nodded. “Giving us plenty of time to get in, get our treasure, and make our escape. They’ll be months sorting through the rubble, and by the time they’ve figured out what went wrong, we’ll be sitting on an island off the Rialto Bay, sipping drinks and soaking in the sun.” 

Thea’s smile matched Hestia’s now, and they finished the final preparations to the gaatlok barrels. They were two down thanks to Hissrad’s little stunt with the sulfur, but what was left was still more than enough to level this whole place. Just as they were done, Karla returned with Dorian in tow. 

“Ah, Master Pavus, so good of you to join us,” Hestia said. The smile on her face was anything but what a smile should be. “You’re going to help me with a little problem.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The long string of curses that flew from the Bull’s mouth would have made the most hardened of sailors and mercenaries blush. Whoever that bard was, he would hunt him down when all this is over and---

But a series of panicked screams and angry shouts from the main hall stopped his tirade, and he crept slowly down the hall to look, not bothering to worry much about the trail of blood left in his wake. His entire torso from the waist up was covered in scrapes and gaping wounds, parts of skin pulled off to reveal bright red blood beneath. 

It had been a narrow fit through the gap, and for the first time he actually wished he’d skipped a workout or two. As it was, he hardly had any skin left on his top half, and even then he couldn’t fit the sulfur bag through. He still cursed himself for leaving it behind, but there’d been no choice. If he’d stayed, they’d have killed him and taken it back anyway. At least this way, there might still be a chance to stop them. 

And now that they almost certainly knew his weakness, he had even more reason to make sure they didn’t succeed. 

He reached the end of the hall and peered around the corner to look down into the main hall. His instinctive sense of danger was growing as he watched the hostages being led out of the room and toward the stairwell leading down. Whatever the hell they were planning now, it wasn’t good. He reached down to his sending crystal and activated it. 

“Krem, whenever you’re coming in be careful. They’ve rounded up all the hostages and they’re leading them down to---”

But a force from behind knocked him off his feet. He rolled, recovering quickly, and came up to face a woman with a mage staff, a bandolier still mostly full of blood vials, and a face that was pure rage. He recognized her as the second mage with Hestia from down in the tunnels. 

“You killed my brother!” she shouted at him, and hurled a stonefist at his chest. 

He dodged, coming up against the wall, and grunted from the impact. The hall was too narrow to fight in, but there was nowhere for him to go. Besides, his odds were way better this time; he had no intention of running. 

He charged forward, wanting to eliminate her ranged advantage, but she was ready for that, and a spout of flame burst forth from her staff, keeping him at bay long enough for her to take out her knife and cut a long, red line down one forearm. It joined the blood from her vials as every single one shattered to her will and formed a macabre sanguine mist around her. Her eyes glowed red for a moment as she uttered an incantation, and suddenly the rubble around her came to life, forming a great humanoid shape easily twice his size, with matching red eyes where the face would be. 

“Aw, c’mon!” the Bull shouted. He really fucking hated blood mages. 

The stone wraith took a swing and he ducked, but one horn was caught and he went tumbling down the ledge into the main hall, now empty of all hostages and henchmen, aside from the one currently trying to kill him. 

She was lowering herself slowly, a dull red aura surrounding her as she continued her incantations, and the wraith landed with a resounding crash behind her, splitting into a dozen pieces that then quickly reformed and searched the room. Its angry red eyes settled on him and he could swear it actually scowled. 

Not allowing time to recover, it charged forward and he had to desperately roll out of its path. One foot was crushed beneath its lumbering steps, issuing an intense burst of pain and he was forced to hobble toward cover, unable to bear weight on it any longer. The wraith crushed the column he’d been hiding behind to pieces, sending more rubble crashing around them. The Bull caught a falling rock and swung it with all his might at the thing, but it seemed to do little but chip away at one shoulder, which hardly bothered it at all. 

It lurched forward, taking the Bull by the horns - literally - and swinging him around much as he’d just done with the rock. It let go on the second swing and he flew through the air, crashing into a wall and feeling his shoulder pop out of place for the second time. He screamed in rage and pain, clutching at the shoulder in a futile attempt to reset it, but the wraith was already on him, picking him up again, this time by the now useless arm and holding him there while he writhed in agony, helpless to get himself loose. 

“YOU SNAPPED HIS NECK!” A deep, gravelly voice seemed to come from the wraith, but the Bull knew its source was the mage. He could see her in his periphery, still glowing bright red and mouth moving ceaselessly as she continued her incantation. “I’M GOING TO DO THE SAME TO YOU! BUT NOT BEFORE I BREAK EVERY OTHER BONE IN YOUR BODY!” 

In a desperate attempt to get free, the Bull scraped a smear of blood from his chest and hurled it at the great red eyes. Amazingly, it let go, and he fell to the ground. Realizing something, he looked over to the mage to confirm. Yes, she wasn’t even looking this way. She was seeing through the wraith’s eyes. 

He smiled as an idea formed. 

Rising, he hurled himself forward and picked up momentum, running at breakneck speed for the mage, ignoring the many protestations of his mangled body. She didn’t notice him coming, intent on following with the wraith, which was hot on his heels and already closing in. He just needed to make it a few more feet… 

At the last possible second, he tucked and rolled out of the way, and the stone wraith was too slow to change track, continuing forward and colliding with a bone-crushing splat with its master, who didn’t even see it coming until the very last second. Her scream came too late, and was quickly cut off by the sudden weight of hundreds of pounds of stones falling on top of her. 

The Bull allowed himself a moment to pop his shoulder back into its socket before rising to sift through the rubble, finding the bloodied remains of the mage with a grimace. She had no real weapons on her, but he took the dagger just in case, and made his limping way across the hall and down the stairs.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Krem was forced to listen to the whole fight, helpless to do anything as he heard his Chief struggle and scream and bear injury upon injury. When at last the noise stopped and he still heard his boss’s ragged breathing, he was at once relieved and even more afraid. 

They all rushed through the temple’s doors then, the chevaliers finally ready to launch whatever plan they had in motion. But what they saw was nothing but rubble and blood. There were a couple body bags lined against one wall. None of them were the Chief or Dorian, though Krem did recognize the lead researcher and several of the Inquisition’s guards. 

“They’re gone!” Jacques declared unnecessarily. 

“The Chief said they were leading them down before he got cut off,” Krem called from where he stood by the bodies. 

“Krem!” Rocky waved him over to a pile of rubble that looked little different than any other, but Krem trusted the dwarf’s knowledge of the Stone and walked over to examine where he was pointing. “Looks like someone turned this into a Rock Wraith.” 

“Someone?” 

Rocky gestured again, and Krem’s attention was grabbed by a bloody hand protruding awkwardly from amidst the rubble. He shuddered. Whatever happened here, he hoped the Chief had avoided it. He knew how much he hated magic. 

“There are stairs here!” cried out the other chevalier - Krem vaguely remembered the name as Benoit or something. 

He walked over to meet them at what turned out to be a long, wide staircase that after several feet took a sharp turn and disappeared behind a wall, continuing down. Something about the stairs gave him a bad feeling. Or maybe that was the urgency in the Chief’s voice when he’d been trying to warn him of… something. 

“We shouldn’t go charging in there without a plan,” Krem tried to say, but the chevaliers were already marching downward. 

“Nonsense!” Jacques called back over his shoulder. “The hostages are ours to save! We are honor-bound to rescue them, no matter the risk. And we shall not fail them!” 

And like that, they were gone, leaving Krem cursing under his breath. 

“Boss?” Dalish called from the entrance. “I think there’s a back way out. Should we scout it out?” 

“Do it.” 

“I’ll help!” Sera called, eager and rather more cheerful than the situation called for. But Krem was glad for the extra set of eyes. He nodded his approval. 

“The rest of you, follow me,” he said, and followed the chevaliers down the stairwell. 

Before he got far, however, the ground began to tremble far below, bubbling up the stairs in a wave. In the depths, he heard screaming.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t take the Iron Bull long to figure out Hestia’s game once he saw where she was taking the hostages. The room he’d found before, with the gaatlok barrels, had nearly all the traps deactivated, save for a few pressure plates at the entrance, which each of the hostages was carefully led around. 

At the far end of the room was a great, ornately carved door made of gleaming silverite, strong and durable… and impenetrable when used as vault doors. And he had a good guess as to what was on the other side of those vault doors. You didn’t go to all that trouble to protect nothing. He could have laughed at the absurdity. After all this, they were after treasure. 

He clung to the outside of a high window and watched the hostages being herded into the room. Dorian wasn’t among them, he noted with growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He pushed the worry aside for now; it wasn’t doing him any good. Falling back on his training, he assessed the space and planned his next move. 

He was hanging by rope this time; several yards of it had lain discarded in the main hall and he’d taken it with him in hopes it would come in handy, and it had. Scaling the exterior of the temple was far easier with it. The vault was the lowest level of the temple, but they were still miles up, and white oblivion fell below for as far as the Bull could see, though he tried very hard not to. 

Only two henchmen left now, by his count, plus Hestia herself. She was currently conferring with them at the only entrance to the room. Presently, one of them - Thea, the rogue - ran off down the hall back toward the stairs, while the other stayed and patrolled slowly around the room. There was his chance. 

He took the rope and carefully began feeding a loop of it into the window with one hand, while his other clung to the ledge, aided by a foothold. When the patrolling henchman was right under the window, he hooked the loop beneath his neck and released his foot, letting himself fall until he felt the rope grow taut. He grimaced against the wrenching of his still-tender shoulder, but maintained his grip, pulling himself back up when he felt the struggling stop. 

When he got back to the window, he heard the hostages panicking again, and somewhere Hestia was shouting orders - probably demanding the rogue come back to help her fight. He pulled himself through the window, barely managing to fit but helped by the slick blood still oozing from several wounds, landing in a crouched position, ready to fight. 

But Hestia was gone, and in her place were two chevaliers, primped and polished as peacocks and looking entirely too perfect for their grubby surroundings. They were eyeing him with a familiar gleam in their gazes that he knew all too well as a love of battle, and cursed his shit luck. 

“Fiendish brute!” one of them cried out to him. “You shall pay for your crimes against these innocents!” 

“Wait, you idiot!” the Bull held up his hands and tried to appear non-threatening. “You’ll set off the traps!” 

But it was no use. They both charged him, and within their first few paces he could hear the click of a pressure plate activating. 

He didn’t wait, just acted, pushing as many of the hostages forward as he could as spurts of flame shot forth from the walls. Many instinctively ducked, and soon a mob mentality took over as they followed the flow of the back row that was pushing in a panic for the only exit. The Bull caught one of the flame spurts in the side and ignored it, grabbing as many people as he could as he continued his surge forward, shouting as loud as he could that the place was going to blow. 

Just as he was about to reach the exit, however, he instinctively dodged to his right as a sword swung down in the air where his arm had been only a second ago. 

“Hey asshole!” he shouted to the chevalier attacking him. “I’m on your side!” 

The chevalier was well past listening, taking swing after swing and forcing him back toward the far wall. He was fast, and the Bull had nothing to counter with. He recognized the familiar glint of silverite, and didn’t dare try to catch the blade at the speeds with which it was arcing through the air. 

Desperate, he looked around the room, glad at least to see that the hostages all seemed to have made it out. Unfortunately, his eye also caught Hestia’s, who had returned to the doorway and stood over the other chevalier’s corpse. 

She was smirking at him as she held a flickering flame in the palm of her hand. 

Oh fuck.

With the manner of someone who was flicking away a scab they’d just picked, she sent the flame toward the nearest barrel of gaatlok. 

The Bull’s instincts took over and he turned, ignoring the chevalier utterly. He crossed the room in three wide strides, grabbing hold of the rope just as the room erupted around him. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” 

The floor collapsed beneath him, flames burst against his skin, concussive waves wracked his body and buffeted his already badly abused torso. For what felt like a small eternity, all he knew was fire and smoke and an unholy cacophony. 

When it was finally over, the room around him had all but disappeared - except for the vault, which clung to the cliffside that was now open to the Orlesian winter air. 

And the Bull, who still held onto the rope, dangling in emptiness and surrounded by smoke. His elation was short lived, however. When he looked up, he saw the rope fraying where fire had caught it. Under his weight, it wouldn’t last long. Desperate, he began swinging his legs back and forth, making himself a pendulum. The ledge was only a few feet away. If he could just reach it… 

A concerted effort gave him a good swing, and given another few seconds, he might even have made it. But the rope had other plans. It snapped, sending him careening downward with a terrified shout. He reached out with his arms and legs, nails scraping and fingers bending as he failed to find a hold. It felt as if the whole mountain was collapsing around him. 

Some distant part of his mind wondered if his luck had finally run out, when with a jarring wrench that made his bones vibrate and his teeth clamp down against his tongue, he came to a painful stop. 

He tasted blood, and when he opened his eye he saw blood. Once he’d blinked that away, though, his new view was almost as bad. One hand clung by the fingernails to a piece of rock that could potentially be dislodged at any moment. It was the only thing keeping him from plummeting down into the dizzying white oblivion below. A quick glance above - he wouldn’t look the other direction - told him he’d only fallen about thirty feet or so. It felt like much farther. 

Reaching with great effort with his other hand, he managed to get a better hold on the ledge. There, he waited for a brief moment, holding his breath and hoping against hope that the rock would hold. It held. 

Braver now, he put his bulging biceps to good use as he lifted the rest of himself up, up, over the ledge and onto flat - well, flat-ish - ground. Not until he was a full arm’s length away from the edge, however, did he allow himself to collapse and take several great, gulping breaths. He would have to get back up again, he knew, but for the moment, he allowed himself just the tiniest moment to breathe. 

Everything hurt. He was dripping blood - some his, some not. His shoulder might never recover from its multiple dislocations. He was pretty sure he was missing part of one horn. He’d breathed in more than a little bit of the smoke from the gaatlok. His ears still rang from the concussive force of the explosions. And he had never been more exhausted in his life. 

Fuck, as bad as Seheron had been, it at least was at sea level. 

“Welp,” he said to no one in particular. “Shit’s not gonna get done by itself.” 

With a great, weary, and beleaguered sigh, he slowly lifted himself onto two unsteady feet, and looked up toward the new - much lower - mountaintop. He still had to get Dorian back, and there was the not so small matter of his unfinished business with Hestia. Except now, he was out of ideas. And weapons. 

Frowning, he reached down to his waist and realized with some surprise the dagger he’d taken off the blood mage’s corpse was still there. 

Hmm. Maybe one idea…

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Krem hadn’t needed to be told what to do. The very instant he felt the first rumbling he’d turned and shouted to the rest of the men to “MOVE!” and he hadn’t waited to see if they obeyed. He barely made it to the front entrance of the temple before the ground beneath him started to give way and he started tumbling, ass-over-tea-kettle, down the sloping cascade. 

When it was over and the rubble finally came to a standstill, he tentatively rose back to his feet on new ground, checking for injuries and finding nothing substantial. He was relieved to see everyone else had made it as well. They had been fortunate to ride the outer wave of the collapse. 

Rocky let out a low whistle at the destruction once the debris cloud settled. None of them needed to ask him what could have caused this, but he said it anyway. 

“Gaatlok.” He shook his head in disbelief, and spat for good measure. “How the fuck did a bunch of Venatori assholes get a hold of gaatlok?” 

“You’re just mad you still can’t figure out the recipe,” Dalish jeered. 

“Quiet you sods!” Krem shouted down what was sure to turn into a playful scuffle with a stern look. “We still got men in there! Get moving, we need to clear a path down to the lower levels. Dalish, use your---”

“---Bow!” 

“Yeah, yeah, use your bow to blast as much of it away as you can. Let’s go, people! They could need our help!” 

And like that they were off, working in tandem and rapidly clearing a path. 

“Oy!” 

The cry was Sera’s, and by the time Krem identified what she was shouting about - a covered wagon drawn by that talkative woman from earlier in the day - a flash of blonde hair and red tunic and brown druffalo fur was already racing past his vision. 

Sera unleashed an almighty battle cry of “MAAAAAAAAYHEEEEEEEM!” and then wagon and rogue and the poor horses drawing it went toppling over the cliff with barely a shout of surprise as they processed what had just happened. 

Somehow, Sera managed to steer the druffalo she was riding to the right just in time to avoid the cliff herself, and it reared up almost as if in victory. Sera gave a great whoop that echoed into the air around them, fading slowly into silence as the rest stared at her in a mixture of awe, disbelief, and confusion. 

“Serves ya right, ya flippin’ cheater! Crossbows don’t count!” And to emphasize her point, she blew a raspberry after the still-falling carnage.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t believe it.” 

Dorian couldn’t believe it. He shook his head with the weight of his disbelief as he watched trinket after trinket after gold bar after intricately carved goblet being piled into bags haphazardly by Hestia. She was the only one left now, but he knew better than to try his mettle against her. She had a new wild desperation in her eyes that he recognized as belonging to one at the end of their rope. 

And his magic had still not returned. 

So he focused on riling her up in other ways. Namely, what he was best at, aside from his magic. Verbal aggravation. 

“After all your plans, all your posturing and your speeches. You’re nothing more than a common thief.” 

Hestia rounded on him, holding her staff barely a hair’s breadth from his face. 

“I am an exceptional thief, Master Pavus!” she said, and the wildness in her eyes gleamed in the low light of the setting sun that had wide access to the vault now there was no wall left. “And since I’m moving up to kidnapping, you should consider being more polite!” 

Then she returned to gathering up as much of the treasure as she could carry, while he quietly returned to trying to free himself from the bindings around his wrists. 

“Hestia!” 

The call was gruff and filled with a lot more pain than he remembered, but Dorian would recognize that voice anywhere. He turned with eyes full of elation, his chest swelling in gratitude. He hadn’t dared allow himself to hope… 

But what he saw nearly dashed his hopes all over again. 

The Iron Bull stood in the hallway - or what was left of the hallway - and was absolutely covered in blood. Whether it was his or someone else’s Dorian couldn’t have begun to guess. One horn was badly cracked, the other was missing the tip; he quietly mourned the loss of his beautiful symmetry. Beneath the blood and sweat he saw the outlines of multiple gashes and scrapes, so much that it almost looked as though he’d lost a layer of skin. One shoulder looked badly warped, as though it was broken or dislocated. Through it all, his one grey eye stared out at them, cold but gleaming with the same fierceness that was reflected in Hestia’s answering glare. 

“ _Kaffas...._ ” 

“Hey, _kadan_.” 

Dorian was speechless, and even he had to admit that was a first. The hard cold metal of Hestia’s staff under his chin reminded him this would not be a happy reunion just yet.

“You’re out of weapons, Hissrad,” she called out to him. 

“You’re out of temple,” Bull replied. 

“Yes, well, when you steal a few baubles from a mansion or two you might be able to disappear. You steal a vault full of ancient and priceless artifacts they will find you. Unless they think you’re already dead.” 

“Makes no difference to me.” Bull shrugged, giving Dorian a meaningful look that broke his heart. “I was never here for any of that.” 

“Yes, I see that now.” She looked Dorian up and down in a way that made him feel like he needed a shower, and then leaned in, grabbing hold of his wrists via the rope that held them bound. Her staff’s head still held firmly under his chin prevented him from trying to resist, but he returned her gaze with a withering glare of his own. 

“You would have been an excellent asset to my team, you know,” she said, almost wistfully, to Bull. 

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” 

“What is it they say about you, and your bas name? Iron Bull?” 

“The Iron Bull.” 

“Yes, that’s it. Tell me, how likely am I to ‘ride the bull’ now?” 

Dorian ground his teeth, and even as Hestia was moving her staff to strike down Bull he was working frantically at his ropes, trying to get free, to stop her, but Bull… laughed. 

His laughter made Hestia pause, at first confused, then she joined in. The both of them looked crazy, laughing maniacally while Dorian watched in puzzlement. Bull must have been stalling for something, and his gut told him to watch him carefully, while he continued to work at his bonds. With a deft twist of one wrist, he was free at last. 

Seeing that, Bull stopped laughing, and in the span of a second he shouted Dorian’s name in warning and reached behind him to pull out a dagger from… his back, apparently - What, had he literally been carrying that jammed into his shoulder?! - and hurled it through the air. 

Dorian ducked just in time, and the dagger struck home in Hestia’s chest. She dropped the staff and stumbled backward, her grip still firm on Dorian’s wrist. Too off-balanced from ducking, he stumbled after her. One step, two, three… 

Then the ground opened up beneath him, and they both plummeted over the edge.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dorian!” 

Bull gave an involuntary cry as he saw his love topple over the edge along with Hestia, and his body moved without command, hurling toward the edge in vain hope of catching him. When he got there, he saw them both clinging desperately to their lifelines - Dorian clung to a rock that jutted outward just a few feet from the floor of the vault, and Hestia clung to Dorian, holding onto a piece of fabric from his tunic. 

Even as Bull watched, the fabric ripped, and Hestia fell by an inch, and her momentum pulled at Dorian’s grip. He held on, but barely, teeth gritted against the strain, and he was slipping. 

And there was nothing Bull could do. They were out of reach, and the dagger had been his final gambit. There was nothing else left to him. He met Dorian’s dark gaze, wanting to tell him he was sorry, but something he saw there gave him pause, and Dorian nodded, before turning his gaze down to face Hestia. He relinquished one hand’s grip to aim it downward at her, even as she was aiming her own hand up in a last, desperate attempt to destroy her enemies, even if it took her down too. 

But Dorian struck first. 

A small burst of flame guttered forward from his palm, striking her square in the face. It wasn’t much - barely a spark compared with what he was normally capable of - but it was enough. 

She let go, and plummeted down into the white abyss below. 

Just as Dorian’s other hand slipped from the rock, Bull caught him, having climbed down partway to help him up. Dorian, normally not one to accept help from anyone, allowed Bull to hoist him back up over the ledge before lifting himself. 

Both collapsed to their knees into each other’s arms, and their lips met before they could even gasp in relief. It was their first shared breath in a long time, and by the time they could bare to be separated they were gasping all over again, for very different reasons.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Krem counted the hostages as they emerged, cross-referencing them in his mind with the total number of the research team, and making sure none of them appeared to be carrying any weapons of any kind. He was relieved to see only a scant few were missing from the list, knowing it could have been a lot worse. He quickly and efficiently directed the efforts to get them treated and cleaned up, and those that could walk were guided in short order down the path to the forward base - a trip that was likely to be a good deal shorter now a good portion of the mountaintop was blown off. 

He was, however, positively elated when he saw the Chief and Dorian emerge last, arms wrapped fiercely around each other so tightly and staggering so badly it was hard to say who was supporting whom. He let out an uncharacteristic whoop of joy and rushed up to them, directing the nearest healer to come with him. 

“Chief! You’re alright!” 

“Krem, looks like you did good out here.” Bull looked around approvingly, then shook his head at the healer who was aghast, trying to figure out where to even start. “Him first.” 

“I told you, _amatus_ , I’m not hurt!” Dorian insisted, and ordered the mage to heal Bull first. 

The mage, a bit perturbed, looked back and forth between them before Bull finally allowed him to do his job. 

“Start with the horn,” he insisted, ever stubborn and priorities as warped as usual. It was a great relief to Krem. 

By the time the healer had gotten most of the damage to Bull’s body fixed, Sera had pulled up beside them with her rickety old cart, the druffalo once again hitched to the front of it and protesting passively to her insistent stick-poking. 

“Oy!” she cried out to the pair. “You made it! Bloody good job, right?” 

“Sera?” Dorian was incredulous as he took in the sight. “What are you driving?” 

“Need a lift, don’tchya?” She smiled and gestured with a nod toward the back. “C’mon!” 

“I’m not getting in th---”

Just then, the bard who’d come with the chevaliers came rushing excitedly over, crowding the pair and tuning his lute.

“Ah! Pardon, messeres, but might I trouble either of you with some questions?”

“Back off, bard,” Krem moved to insert himself in the man’s path. “You’ve caused enough trouble already with that little dirge of yours from earlier.”

“Oh, but I only need a few details to polish off my song! I promise, by this time next week, it’ll be sung in every tavern from Val Royeaux to---”

But however far his delusions traveled they would never know, for he was violently interrupted with a swift fist across the face, sending his length sprawled across the snowy ground. Krem turned, expecting to see the Chief, but the punch had come from Dorian. 

“I owed him one,” he said, pointing to his own rapidly darkening black eye. Krem only clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

“You coming, _kadan_?” Bull asked with a jerk of his head toward Sera’s cart. “I’m supposed to get you back to the Inquisition, remember?”

Dorian huffed. “As I was saying, there’s absolutely no way I’m riding all the way back to Skyhold in that.”

“---Aw c’mon,” Bull clapped him on the back and climbed aboard, holding out one hand and giving him a very meaningful look that Krem had learned to ignore since the pair had become, well, a pair. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” 

It was obvious Dorian wanted to protest, but he seemed incapable as he met the heated gaze of the Iron Bull. With a beleaguered sigh, he once more allowed himself to be hoisted up and into his amatus’s arms. 

Their lips met hungrily, and with a triumphant shout from Sera and weary protest from the druffalo, the cart lurched forward. Krem went about his job seeing to the rest of the hostages, but when he spared them another glance in the last moment before the curve in the path would take them out of sight, they were still at it, faces and hearts forever joined.


	5. Epilogue

_V: So? What’d you think?_  
 _IB: …_  
 _D: …_  
 _V: … Well, don’t everyone speak at once._  
 _IB: ...I LOVED IT!_  
 _D: You did?_  
 _V: You did?_  
 _IB: Shit yeah! All the explosions? The action? The way you made me sound like a fucking badass? It. Was. Awesome!_  
 _V: Well, great! How about you, Sparkler?_  
 _D: It’s… lovely._  
 _V: But?_  
 _D: Well, it’s just a bit… inaccurate about certain things._  
 _V: Okay, which things?_  
 _D: Well, for starters… sending crystals don’t work like that._  
 _V: Yeah okay, but I needed a way for everyone to be able to communicate, so…_  
 _D: Not to mention the nonsensical plot device. Why would a temple to Dirthamen have a vault filled with gold trinkets?_  
 _V: I dunno. Maybe the ancient elves were just a bunch of rich hoarders?_  
 _D: And as for the action scenes…_  
 _V: Ugh, here we go._  
 _D: You do know that’s not actually how blood magic works, right?_  
 _IB: Oh c’mon, it doesn’t have to be accurate. They’re fun!_  
 _D: For you, maybe. I spent most of the story as a hostage. I barely got to do anything!_  
 _V: Okay, that’s a fair complaint. I just couldn’t have you immediately char the whole group of bad guys right off the bat. There had to be some stakes._  
 _D: The threat of destruction of an ancient elven temple and the vast wealth of knowledge contained within wasn’t high enough stakes on its own?_  
 _V: Yeah, okay, but no one cares about that stuff._  
 _D: Excuse me?_  
 _V: Okay, most people who aren’t enormous nerds don’t care about that stuff._   
_D: Ah, fair enough I suppose._  
 _IB: Where’d you even get the idea for this?_  
 _V: Actually, you’re not gonna believe it but… Cole._  
 _D: Cole?!_  
 _V: He and Chuckles were having one of their weird Fade talks, and some of the stuff they said gave me the idea for this story._  
 _D: I will literally never understand that man… spiri… whatever he is._  
 _IB: Well, he’s doing something right if he’s giving Varric this kinda inspiration._  
 _D: *sigh* Well, you got one thing right at least._  
 _V: Oh?_  
 _D: I cannot stand this one for longer than five minutes without extreme aggravation._  
 _IB: Hey, that’s all I need! *wink*_  
 _D: Ugh…_  
 _IB: Besides, I’ve got some pretty compelling evidence that’s not true._  
 _D: UGH!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April Fool's! (or if you're reading this any time after it's original posted date, Woooo!) Hope y'all enjoyed my little foray into insanity, lol. The original idea came about from a conversation I was having with MakjangCandy, that began with us fawning over our mutual love of 80s/90s campy action flicks, and ended in "What if Die Hard, but gay?" From there, making the Iron Bull and Dorian the stars was a no-brainer. Please leave comments and let me know what you thought. Also, I'm curious to know when it started occurring to you that this was basically Dragon Age's version of Die Hard. ^_^


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